Joe Pitt 1 - Already Dead (22 page)

Authors: Charlie Huston

He opens his daughter's fly slowly, then butterflies it and pauses, gazing at the triangle
of white cotton beneath.

--Giving in to one's passions on a constant basis weakens the individual, as well as the
passions themselves. Self-control, willpower, not only strengthen the individual, but also
sharpen the appetite.

He inserts his index fingers at the waistband of Amanda's jeans and begins to tug them
down over her slight hips.

--Self-control allows one the time to fully contemplate one's desires, and to imagine
detailed scenarios in which those desires might be fulfilled. It also allows one the time
to arrange circumstances so that the most favored of these scenarios might come to
fruition.

The jeans are off now, and he folds them carefully and places them atop Amanda's shoes and
socks.

---And if you look back, I think you will see how it is that your lack of self-control, and
my own ample supply of this virtue, has led you to be in your current position, and me to
be in mine.

He runs a finger over the elastic waistband of his daughter's panties. He nods his head.

--Now you may begin. But make sure she is watching me.

The goon grunts and clumsily tries to shove his now utterly limp penis into Marilee while
still forcing her to watch her husband. Horde tucks his fingertips into the panties and
begins to slide them down. I close my eyes. I can close my eyes. And I can feel my body.
And it is not filled with pain. I open my eyes.

--Hey.

No one hears.

--Hey!

They hear this time. The goon, with a handful of Marilee's hair and something less than a
handful of limp dick. Horde, with his daughter's panties pulled just past the tops of her
hip bones. They both stop and turn their heads to look at me where I stand leaning
crookedly against the pile of desks.

--Stop that.

Horde purses his lips.

--He was supposed to be finished?

--I've got it.

The enforcer is on me. He appears before me from whatever corner he has been lurking in,
seizes my throat and shoves me through the pile of half-rotted desks. The wood tops of the
desks splinter and crack and he pins me to the wall, fingers digging into my neck.

Horde holds up a hand.

--Don't kill him. He needs to be shot.

The enforcer keeps his eyes locked on my face.

--I know. He's strong.

Predo keeps them gorged on blood. That's what Terry told me. He said that short of the
Secretariat, the enforcers are rationed the largest shares of Coalition blood. They feed
to surfeit, their appetites always appeased. Predo keeps himself lean, hungry and subtle,
but his instruments are often blunt and hard. I have likely never fed as well as this one
feeds daily. He is strong, trained and experienced in the use of that strength.

Which is the advantage he retains when my heart explodes. But first it stops.

Death has truly and finally arrived.

Good.

I have failed. Failed as a child; failed as a man; failed as a revolutionary; failed as a
lover; failed as a goodguy. My only success in life has been as a pawn. Fuck it, I never
asked to be any of those things. And my life was over by rights long ago. I've just been
waiting to catch up to it.

Then my heart explodes, beating a manic rhythm, and I realize my life is not over. Hell.
The world shivers and splinters, vibrates at a frequency beyond my senses' range of
reception, and then resolves into clarity.

I feel the room. Cracks in the concrete walls etched in sharp detail; fecal and delicate
odors both, articulated and singular; sounds enunciated perfectly, from Marilee's scream
to Amanda's peacefully drugged inhalations; the taste of my own tongue; the whorls of the
fingerprints on the hand gripping my throat. My heart trip-hammers, trying to dig its way
from my chest. And all of it; cracks in the walls, smells of shit and Horde's French
milled soap, sounds of scream and breath, taste of my own flesh, unique identifying
ridges; all of it pales beside my hunger.

I grab at the enforcer's wrist. The movement jars the world. The room shivers again,
bright trails of light tail from every object, and I miss the enforcer's arm entirely.
It's too fast, I'm too fast. I try to breathe, realize I am already breathing, air
desperately chugging in and out of my lungs in an attempt to keep up with my heart's need.
I wait for the shock of the enforcer's clutch on my neck. But it doesn't come. He is
frozen, stunned by the speed of my attack, not yet certain what has happened. I grab at
him again, slowly this time. My hand clips his forearm, knocks his hand from my throat. He
drops into a crouch, the thin stiletto blade sprouts from his hand, and he waits, poised
for my next move.

But I am not interested in him. He has nothing for me. I can smell what is inside him and
it will not nourish me or feed my hunger. But the others, three of the others in the room
have what I spoil for. They are bursting with it.

The enforcer waits for my attack, but I do not attack. I charge, sweeping my left arm at
him as I go past, launching him into the discarded desks, a wrecking ball through
crumbling brick. The goon is the closest. I am nearly upon him before he or Horde have
registered what has happened. I will drink their blood and they will die before they know
death has begun.

The air at my back thrums as something passes through it.

I spin, see the enforcer leaping at me, sidestep and catch only half his blow. Still it
drives me to my knees. The stiletto arcs down, a glitter that winks at my neck. I bring up
my arm to block the blade. I am too fast again, my arm whistles in front of his, but
misses entirely. He is again startled by my speed, and the angle of the glitter changes
and it draws a line along the edge of my jaw. I jump up and he dodges back. What I need is
behind me. I cannot be bothered with him now. I turn.

Joe Pitt 1 - Already Dead

The goon is on his feet, pants bunched around his calves, penis shriveled inside its latex
wrapper. He is holding his jacket, trying to pull something from one of its pockets,
something that has snagged and will not come free. I reach for him, and instead of
grabbing his shoulder I shove it. There is a dull snap as his shoulder pops out of its
socket and he is sent reeling and crashes to the floor by the door. I look at the bound
and half-naked woman at my feet. But she smells wrong. She has been polluted and will
poison me if I try to drink her. I crouch, ready to leap on the helpless goon who now
struggles with his one useful hand to pull free whatever weapon is concealed in his
jacket.

The enforcer lands on my back.

One arm snakes around my throat and the stiletto thrusts at my face. I bring my hand up,
the stiletto pierces the palm and juts out the back, the point halted an inch from my eye.
I fall backward, lift my feet from the floor and land on the enforcer. He makes a noise
and the arm around my neck loosens. I roll to my left, tumbling free of him, wrenching my
hand from the blade and coming to my feet.

There is a tingling along my jaw and in my hand. I can feel the flesh knitting, the Vyrus
in overdrive, closing my wounds as they are inflicted. The enforcer is up. He is between
me and the goon now. No matter. There is more food here.

I turn to face Horde and his unconscious daughter. The stiletto enters my back, is plunged
into my liver twice before I can seize his arm, hunch forward, and toss the enforcer to a
far corner of

the room.

The pain is more persistent this time. The healing tickle not such a balm. The Vyrus is
fighting a losing battle against the damage I'm absorbing. I must feed.

The enforcer is on me again, charging from the corner. He crashes into me and we sprawl on
the floor. He straddles my chest, pins my arms with his knees. The stiletto comes down,
drives through my left forearm and sticks in the crumbling concrete below. He covers my
eyes with his thumbs and starts to gouge them out of their sockets. I wrench my head to
the side and catch his wrist between my teeth.

His blood is acid. It fills my mouth, scorching my tongue. I close my throat against it.
The small bones of his wrist crunch between my teeth and he howls and rips himself free
and off of me. I gag and spit his torn meat from my mouth and yank the stiletto from my
arm. I roll to my knees. The wound in my arm stays open, streaming blood. The Vyrus is
dealing with my more mortal hurts. Ignoring that which will not kill me outright. The
enforcer is between me and the others again. He comes in low, in a wrestler's crouch, the
blood clotting at his wrist.

I see the Enclave in my mind. Their disciplined sparring. The control they exert over the
Vyrus gone berserk in their veins. It can be controlled, this power. I have seen it.

He feints at my right arm, the arm that now holds his blade. I dodge to the left, away
from the feint and into the real attack he had planned for my wounded left arm.

He cranks the arm up and back and pain explodes in my shoulder as he tries to snap it
before I can react. But I am already reacting, twisting to my left, bringing the stiletto
around in an arc behind his legs, and drawing it back, the blade raking the tendons just
above the tops of his knees. He drops, his legs folding like marionette limbs beneath him,
my arm falling from his grasp. I plant the heel of my left hand beneath his jaw as he
comes down and force him back, his legs powerless beneath his body. I climb onto his
stomach, still shoving his head back, baring his throat, and stab him in the neck. Over
and over. Blood sprays, and air whistles from a dozen holes. I shove the blade in one
final time, fixing it at the far point below his jaw, and then heave it over to the other
side. I leave the stiletto lodged in his twitching corpse and stand up.

The woman on the floor has freed her hands and is clumsily trying to get to her feet, but
the bacteria is still finding its place and she is delirious with it. The goon is by the
door, whimpering and trying to get at his weapon.

But there is blood here at my left hand.

I turn to kill Horde and his daughter, and he shoots me in the stomach.

The gun is small, the slender European automatic of the well-to-do. The pain flares and
disappears in the same instant. The tingle of regeneration fills my belly. I move at
Horde, knowing I can pluck the weapon from his hand before he can fire it again.

Two vicious insects latch onto the back of my neck and I am knocked to my knees by 50,000
volts.

I open my mouth and howl silently and piss myself. Two wires run from my neck to the black
box in the goon's hand. I flail at the wires, yank them from my skin and scramble to my
feet. The goon is screaming, banging his head against the wall, fumbling one-handed with
the Taser, trying to insert another charge. I take a step toward him.

Horde shoots me again. The bullet rips through the meat of my left thigh. I stumble but
don't fall, and turn to face him again. And am stung by the 50,000 once more.

Steam wisps from the holes in my arm, leg and stomach, and Horde adds a new hole, this one
punched through my chest. I feel my right lung collapse and I echo it, keeling and folding
to one side until I am supported by my right knee and hand, left hand clamped over the
gasping hole in my chest. No tingling now, and no vibrant clarity of senses. The Vyrus has
run its course. I am an empty and useless vessel that is beyond repair.

Naked and still erect, Horde steps over his daughter and comes close to me, the gun
declined at my head.

He glances about the room, at his lost and struggling wife, the fear-crazed goon, the
nearly decapitated enforcer, and his sleeping child. Then to me.

--I will not lie to you, Pitt; that was unexpected.

He tilts his head at the enforcer.

--And rather spectacular. Honestly, I've never seen the infected in action. I had no idea
of the ferocity. Or the reserves you can call upon. Was your recovery typical? Or are you
unique in your constitution?

I bleed.

--Regardless, I think it's safe to assume that you are beyond help at this point.

He thinks for a moment.

--But just to be safe.

He shoots my right arm. I sit there, helplessly listing on my one good limb.

--All this carnage may be oversetting the scene a bit, but I trust that Predo will be able
to tidy things up. And I'm sure that the authorities will understand the excesses I took
in avenging myself on you. You would understand as well if you were to stay present long
enough to witness what you did to my daughter. But it is not to be.

He shakes his head.

--A shame. Nothing would please me more than to have you in my lab. But. He heaves a sigh.

--Predo forbids it. I can experiment all I like with the . . . well, one feels comic to
call it this, but with the
zombie
bacteria. But he will not allow me a subject of research for the Vyrus. No bother, I'll
get one on my own soon enough.

--Husband.

He looks at his wife.Ê Standing in clothes askew, leaning crookedly against the wall
behind her. --I think I want to eat you.

She tries to take a step and stumbles, her body, already decomposing, is arguing with the
bacteria over who controls what.

Horde smiles.

--Don't worry, love. You won't have to live with that feeling for long. And who knows,
perhaps I'll cut something from Amanda for you to nibble. I assure you she'd feel only the
mildest pain in the state she's in. The dear won't even remember. What do you say?
Something she won't miss, of course. A little finger?

He turns his eyes back to me and shrugs.

--As you can see, I have a great deal to take care of here. My family is waiting.

He presses the barrel of the gun against the top of my forehead. I watch his finger as it
tightens on the trigger.

Something changes in the room.

A darkness flickers across the corner of my vision. A darkness perilously cold chills the
air. A darkness passes between Horde and myself, erasing its own scent as it travels. The
darkness cuts through Horde and he drops rigid to the floor. The darkness bleeds across
the room, momentarily blackens the shadows in a high corner, and is gone.

And I forget about the darkness and go after what I need.

I crawl up Horde's naked body, every part as rigid as his penis now, his skin icy to the
touch, and a rim of frost on his gun. I dig my fingers under his jaw and pull. His flesh
tears far easier than it should. Flesh tears with a crunch like stepping on snow. I bend
my head to lap his blood. And find it frozen. His torn neck filled with dead crimson
slush.

I rage.

And remember the sleeping girl.

I drag my gunshot leg toward her.

--Joseph.

The woman has the whimpering snot-faced goon. She holds his hair in her hand, his head
pulled far back. In her other hand, she holds the enforcer's stiletto.

--You did a good job, Joseph.

The hard wiry muscles of her arms and shoulders flex as she pushes the knife into the
artery.

Blood splashes.

From across the room I crawl until my mouth is over the hole in his neck. It has been
years since I have had blood from the vein. It is just as I remember. The blood floods my
throat and warmth swells in my stomach and a harsh burning tingle attacks my hurts.

A few blissful red minutes pass. They might be seconds or hours; over far too soon, a
pleasure greater than their brevity would suggest. And when the man is empty and I am full
and my face is rinsed in his gore, I feel as I always do when I feed, like I want more. I
go for the girl.

And I am pummeled to the floor by her mother.

--Joseph.

I am fed, but weak. The Vyrus is replenishing itself, repairing its host. It wants more. I
stand. She brings her doubled fists down on me again.

--Joseph!

Behind her I can see the girl's eyelids flutter. I must have her. I stand. And am hammered
down again.

--Joseph.

I try to crawl past her. She is on my back and we are a pile of struggling limbs on the
floor. I try to free my arms, to pull myself across the few yards between us and the
child. The mother twists her legs around mine and binds my arms in the circle of her own.

--Joseph. Please, Joseph.

Her lips are on the back of my neck, and then her teeth, gnawing gently, experimenting
with biting, but not breaking the skin. The girl's eyes open blindly, close, open again
and close again. Her teeth are on my neck.

--Joseph. Help me. Teeth carrying poison.

I forget the girl, flex the muscles in my shoulders and back, and feel Marilee's grip
fail. I writhe loose of her arms and legs and scuttle away from her. She sits in the
middle of the floor, arms slack, looking at me. Then she looks at her daughter. And crawls
to her.

--Ms. Horde.

She kneels next to the child.

--Ms. Horde.

She touches the skinny bare legs.

--Marilee.

She picks up the folded jeans and starts fussing them back onto the girl. She gets them as
far as her knees and stops. She looks up at me.

--I'm hungry, Joseph.

Her hand rests on Amanda's naked thigh, gripping it too hard, dimpling the skin.

--I'm so hungry.

She looks at her daughter.

--Help me, Joseph.

The holes in my body are all closed, blood trapped inside, but I can feel that only one
lung is inflating, and poisons released from my pierced intestines and liver are pooled in
my gut. The Vyrus will deal with it, given time it will make me whole. But if the woman
attacks me now, with the bacteria fresh and strong in her, she will finish me.

I stand and walk to her. She reaches a hand up to me. I take it and help her to her feet.
She puts a hand alongside my face, and presses her mouth against mine. When she pulls away
her lips and chin are smeared with the dead man's blood.

--I had a feeling about you, Joseph.

I bring my right hand up to the back of her head.

--From the first moment I saw you, I had a feeling you were special.

I bring up my left hand, the cuffs, one bracelet sawed through, still trailing from my
wrist, and cup her chin.

--Special. Like you were someone I could trust.

Her eyes drift to her daughter and back to me.

--Can I trust you, Joseph?

I run a tongue over my lips, taste the blood.

--Yeah, sure.

--Good.

And I break her neck.

It's not easy. It's very hard. I am drained and weak and she flinches at the last moment.
I heave once and her spine crackles and she starts to tremor. Then I heave again and feel
the clean snap and she goes still.

I lower her to the floor, and as I do I meet Amanda's open staring eyes, see her mouth
gaping in a silent nightmare scream, and then her eyes close again. This moment, I hope,
to be lost with the rest of her terrors.

Lydia brings three of her hammers. Two of them are diesels, beefier than her but not
nearly as cut. The other is a pre-op tranny a huge chick with a dick, shoulders and tits
the size of bowling balls.

--Is she OK?

--They shot her up with something. I don't know what.

--They who?

I look at Amanda, limp in my arms.

--People who aren't around anymore.

Lydia nods.

--What now?

--She needs a safe place.

--How long?

--Don't know. Couple days maybe.

She looks at the tranny.

--Sela?