Already Dead: A Novel

XXX

I've been spending a little too much time in basements the last few nights, but hey, it goes with the territory. I choke up on the bat and head down the stairs.

I'm hit with that generic oily-dirt smell that permeates City basements. There's garbage down here and moldy cloth and waterlogged newsprint, and blood. Lots of blood, and it smells just like Leprosy. I follow the blood.

These East Village tenements have been torn down and rebuilt so many times that the floor plans of the original builders have become worthless abstracts. This basement has penetrated far beyond the property lines of the building above. Many of these buildings could have had a single owner in the past and for any of a number of reasons he might have connected the basements into a single maze. Could have helped to hide a sweatshop, escape routes from a drug lab or, in a more innocent time, a speakeasy. Anything. All it means to me is that I'm getting lost down here. But the smell of Leprosy's blood is getting stronger ahead of me.

Every so often I pass a loose-fitting door that leads into someone's laundry room or the storage closet for a bodega and light from a feeble bulb leaks out. But I don't really need that light to tell me when I get to the place where someone must have cut Leprosy open because I just about slip and fall down in the puddle of his blood. He's up ahead of me. In the darkness. Alone. I tuck the bat under my arm, take out the Maglite, twist it on and shine it into the black room just ahead.

— Hey, fuck face.

He's sprawled on his ass, propped against a half-rotted wood post in the middle of the room, his arms pulled back and tied to the post. His chest is covered with dozens of slash marks and the blood oozes out and pools in his lap. My mouth begins to water. I take the bat out from under my arm and stay there in the doorway.

— Hey, Lep. You look like shit.

— Yeah, well.

His voice is choked and tight.

— I think I'm coming down with a fucking cold, so maybe that's why.

— Uh-huh. There anybody in here with you, Lep?

He moves his head around weakly, then turns it toward me and gives a shaky little smile.

— Looks like it's just me.

I take a step into the room, shine the light into the corners and crannies. It's empty. I walk over to Leprosy, drop the bat and kneel down next to him.

— Let's have a look at you.

The cuts on his chest are shallow, put there to inflict pain, not to kill. I take off my shirt and start tearing it into long strips and wrapping them around his skinny torso to bind the wounds.

— You might get lucky here, Lep.

— Yeah, lucky fucking me.

— They tell you what they wanted?

— They wanted you, fuck face. They wanted to know about you. Then they wanted me to make that fucking call, and as soon as I did they fucked off. So you get all of them?

— Who?

— It was a fucking trap, right? They made me call you and fucking jumped you, right?

— The only thing that jumped me was your dog.

— Gristle? You best not have hurt my dog, fuck face.

— Your dog is fine, the only thing that got hurt was my shoulder.

— Heh. He got you, huh?

— Fuck off, Lep.

I finish wrapping his chest.

— They get you anywhere else? They break anything?

— One of 'em stuck me in the back of my neck or something.

I take him gently by the shoulders, lean him forward until he's resting against my body and look at the back of his neck. There's a bite mark. The edges of it are a sickly greenish white. The bite of the carrier, just like I found it on the neck of the shambler chick. He's dead and rotting, and soon he'll be trying to eat me. I lean him back against the post.

— Looks OK.

— Cool. So you think they'll be waiting for us when we go out? Or maybe they wanted to get you out of the way so they could bust into your place?

I shrug.

— Whatever, we'll deal with it.

— You'll deal with it, fuck face. Not my problem.

I tear another strip from my now ruined shirt.

— Let me get another look at your neck. I want to keep your head from falling off.

— Ha fucking ha, fuck face.

I lean him against me again and use the strip of cloth to wipe the blood away from the hole in the back of his neck.

— You get a look at them, Lep?

— Naw, there was a couple of the fuckers, but it was too dark for me to see shit.

— Which one did this to your neck?

— Fuck do I know? One had me facedown on the floor, and I was screaming and shit, and one of them cut my neck with something.

— They ask you anything special?

— Couple questions. Wanted to know what you asked me. About that chick. What you wanted from me.

— What'd you tell them?

— What the fuck you think I told them? They were cutting my chest open. I told them fucking everything, which wasn't a fuck

of a lot. Leprosy is no fucking hero, man, not for twenty fucking dollars.

— Yeah.

— You done patching that thing up or what?

— Just about. Hey, Lep, if your dog was sick, real sick, what would you do with it?

— What the fuck does that mean? You hurt Gristle, you shit fuck?

He struggles against me weakly and I hold him still.

— Easy, you'll start bleeding again. Naw, the dog is fine, it's like a puzzle thing, like a joke. If your dog was real sick, what would you do?

His body is leaning up against mine, his blood staining my undershirt. His head on my left shoulder, the one his dog chewed, and I'm looking into a hole chewed in his neck.

— Shit, man, if Gristle was that sick, like in pain kind of sick? I'd kill him, man, I'd just fucking kill him.

— That's what I figured.

— So what's the punch line, fuck face?

I take his head in my hands, one on the back, the other tucked under his chin. I lean him back against the crumbling post and do it while I'm looking him in the eye. It's a bad position, I'm on my knees with hardly any leverage, but I do it clean and his body slumps to the floor, head dangling at the end of his broken neck. It takes me awhile to find my way out of the basement.

Gristle is where I left him. A vicious animal that will try to kill anything that comes near it once it wakes. I could take him to the park and see if one of Lep's friends wants him, but they won't. I could take him to the pound where they'll keep him for a few days until they see the killer inside him and then put him down. I could leave him on the street to wake up and wreak havoc until he's shot by some cop. I could take him home. I could take him home and care for him until he loves me like he loved Leprosy.

But he won't. He'll be a broken thing without his master. A wounded monster. I kneel in the dirt. I kill him the same way I killed Leprosy, the same sharp twist of the neck. Then I drag him down into the basement, through the warped passageways to the black room, and I drop him next to his friend. Let them be found, and let whoever finds them make of it what they will. I'm going home.

Zombies don't torture people. They don't torture and they don't interrogate and they don't set traps. Someone is fucking with me. And my people.

Evie comes by. She sees the blood and I tell her it's not mine before she can freak out. She makes me take a shower. I want a bath, but hadn't realized just how much of Leprosy's blood I have on me. She takes my clothes and stuffs them in a plastic sack while I rinse off, then she runs the tub and we sit in it naked, facing one another. I tell her Lep is dead, that some guys that have a beef with me killed him. She doesn't ask questions, just rubs soap on a washcloth and scrubs my feet.

The Cole is just the same, same oak, same mural, same high-priced clientele, but this time there's someone new.

— What I'd like to make clear to you, the one most important piece of information that you should walk away from this conversation with, is that I'd like you never to be seen with my fucking wife ever again.

I nod. And Dale Edward Horde nods back.

He's older than his wife, early fifties, but just as groomed. I doubt that there are designer tags on any of his clothes, but discrete, hand-sewn labels from a bespoke shop on the Upper East Side. His haircut is flawless, a flop of graying black bangs sweeping across his forehead. He's fit and ready for the cover of Men's Health, but his eyes are subtly ringed and his lean muscularity speaks more of stress and intensity than of a gym.

He takes another sip of his Talisker, then leans back in his chair and taps his wedding ring against the rim of the glass.

— As public places go, this one is less public than most. It's the prices, the prices make it unlikely that you will find very many tourists popping in to gawp at the well-to-do. But they're \not really the problem, tourists. The problem is the people with money, people my wife and I associate with. The problem with those people is that so few of them work, they have too much time on their hands and they like to keep up on what one another are doing. Your coming in here with my wife raised more than a few eyebrows. Honestly, I don't particularly care if they think the two of you are intimate. You wouldn't be the first roughneck from downtown with whom she's taken up. But it is something for people to talk about, and so talk they will. That talk is what concerns me. Talk circulates and becomes gossip and rumor, and gossip and rumor have wings that carry them very far indeed. No, my concern is not that I should be known as a cuckold, but rather that word of your involvement with my wife might reach the wrong ears; ears, that is, which might know about who and what you are. Ears such as those would be greatly interested in knowing that my wife and I were having dealings with you and your. . what is the word? Brethren?

I look at my lap some more.

— Not brethren. Let's just say you and your kind. I know it smacks of racism, but there it is.

He swallows the last of his Scotch and sets down the empty glass. A waiter sweeps it away.

— Suffice it to say that you are here now because I need the gossips to see us together, speaking amiably. It will muffle any talk of my wife having an affair with you, and the gossips will quickly find some other tidbit to dwell upon. And thus our association with you will fade from common discourse. You understand my concern, yes?

I nod.

— Good. Now that we have that out of the way, you can join me in a drink.

The waiter returns with a fresh Talisker for Horde and he orders the same for me.

— Is that alright?

I nod. The drink comes and I hold it. Horde points at the glass in my hand.

— Take a drink, it will help with the facade of our knowing one another.

I lift the glass to my lips and take a sip.

— Good, yes?

I nod.

— Then business. My daughter.

I take another drink, a big one this time. It's a heavy Scotch. Wood-smoke and peat fill my nostrils, and for a moment I can't smell the odor of Leprosy's blood that clings to my hair.

— What do you want to know?

— Have you found her?

— No.

He waits for more. I don't give it to him. He tires of waiting.

— A more detailed report perhaps?

— In detail.

I gulp the rest of the whiskey in my glass.

— It looks like your daughter may be in a world of shit. It looks like she's been hanging with her squatter pals in Alphabet City. It also looks like there's some sick shit going on down there that could be very dangerous to anyone living on the street.

He grimaces and nods his head.

— As I understand it, sick shit is what my daughter goes down there seeking. I think it may be safe to assume that if it is about she will find it.

— No, Mr. Horde, it'll find her.

He raises his eyebrows.

— Well, in that case, and seeing as your drink is empty, you'd best go find her.

He stands. I stand.

— My demeanor can be off-putting, Mr. Pitt. People consider me cold. You might perhaps interpret this as an indication that I am less than fond of my daughter. That would be a mistake. Be assured, I love my daughter and I want her back. Unharmed. Get her, and you will be suitably rewarded. Fail, and you will be sorted out accordingly. Which brings me to my final point. I want her delivered into my arms and my arms only. You are not to hand over Amanda to her mother. -Any special reason?

The waiter comes over with a bill, offers it to Horde, and Horde flicks a pen across it without looking. The waiter walks away.

— Yes. For the reason that my wife is a philandering lush and is becoming a singularly unhealthy influence on her daughter. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to shake your hand. It will help to cement our deception for the audience.

I take his hand. It's just as soft as I expect it to be, but strong. He smiles broadly and claps me on the shoulder.

— Unharmed and to my arms. Understood?

He's still holding my hand, his other hand resting on my shoulder, everything about his body language and tone of voice telling the room that I am a trusted and valuable employee. I pull my hand free of his.

— Yeah, sure.

I walk out of the Cole and into the St. James lobby and don't see the stairs in front of me and trip down the first few and have to grab the banister to keep from falling. Sweat breaks out on my face. I feel drunk; very suddenly very drunk. I wipe my hand across the sweat on my face. I smell something, something on my hand, something I've smelled before.

I walk past the front entrance and only realize it when I find myself standing at the elevators. I go back to the entrance and have to watch the revolving door swirl past twice before I can step into it without being crushed.

One of the uniformed doormen helps me down the steps and asks me if I'd like a cab. I shake my head and his face blurs in front of me. I lurch down the sidewalk to the corner of Fifth and 55th and walk right into the moving traffic. Drivers blast their horns and curse at me as I weave my way across the street.

I lean against a pole at the bus stop and look around. The world is made of blurs. I should have let the doorman get me a cab, I'll never make it home like this. I don't even know where home is right now. I need to sit down. Across 55th, people are setting up tents and sleeping bags against the wall of a building. People start crossing the street and I stagger among them and don't stop until I am clutching the wall of the building on the other side. I find an empty patch of sidewalk between a beat-up dome tent and a large cardboard box covered in sheets of plastic. I slump down between them.

The world is riding a Tilt-A-Whirl. I fall onto my side and curl into a hall, my back pressed against the side of the building, against the bars covering a basement window. I ball myself tighter, my hands close to my face, and I smell something again. Something on my hands.

I know that smell.

I'm in trouble.

I try to stand up and my eyes pull themselves closed.

A monster roars. I open my gummed eyes and see a troop of lean, black-topped figures blurring up the street. Old ghosts are coming to haunt me.

The wind whips the sleep from my eyes and the thunder of a dozen Harleys pounds off the buildings lining Fifth Avenue and shatters the predawn quiet. I clutch the leather-jacketed back of the lead rider and look at the Dusters as they gun their bikes downtown. Christ, how do they keep those top hats on their heads?

Terry sent the Dusters for me.

After our bath Evie and me went to bed and didn't wake up till close to two. She ordered us some food from the Odessa Diner and we sat on my bed and ate it. After, I washed my hair again to try and get rid of the smell of Leprosy's blood, but it didn't help much. Blood is a scent that clings. Evie stuck My Darling Clementine in the DVD player to distract me. I sat next to her and stared at the screen, but didn't see anything. I was thinking about the night. How it couldn't come soon enough. How I couldn't wait for the sun to go down so that I could go out on the streets and kill someone. Then the call came, summoning me back to the Cole to meet the husband this time.

When I didn't come back, Evie decided to do something. My coming home covered in Lep's blood was the line for her. After that, she wasn't taking any chances.

She's met Terry a couple times. He's come into her bar looking for me and I introduced him as a player in the neighborhood's community action set. As far as she knows, he's a friend, or as much of a friend as I have. So she called Terry 'cause she didn't know anyone else who might be able to find me. Good girl.

— Bird gave us a ring. Said he wanted us to check something out for him. No biggie, just wanted us to crash Coalition turf and see if we could find you up here.

Christian is yelling over the blast of the bikes' pipes. We're below 24th now, on pretty safe ground, but the Dusters are still riding patrol style: two outriders a block up front, two as a rear guard a block behind, and the rest of the bikes clustered around me and Christian atop his chopped, jet-black 72 Shovelhead. He's hunched over the drag bars and I'm sitting behind him on the buddy seat, leaning against his back so I can hear what he's saying.

— Anyway, I threw together a squad and here we are.

There's more to it, there has to be. The Dusters are one of the small Clans from below Houston. They've managed to carve out some turf around Pike Street under the Manhattan Bridge. They don't have an official affiliation with the Society, but they're allied. The Dusters watch the Society's back door so Terry doesn't get too antsy about them being so close to his turf. But they don't generally go around running Society errands. A deal was cut. The Dusters are either paying off a big debt or getting something big for their trouble; nothing else would make them risk their president and twelve of their best riders by coming onto Coalition territory for a non-member. Whatever price was paid I'll be expected to chip in with something. We cross 14th, back on Society turf, and the bikes start peeling off in twos and threes, each rider saluting Christian with the tip of a top hat before disappearing down a side street. And then it's just Christian and me.

— Bird wants to see you.

I look at the paling sky. If I go to Terry now I'll be stuck with him all day.

— Take me to my place.

— He said to drop you at their headquarters.

— You taking orders from the Society now?

He turns left onto 10th Street. I get off the bike in front of my apartment. Christian sits on the idling machine, takes off his hat and slides his WW I-style goggles up on his forehead.

— Hear you got a problem with some shamblers.

— Where'd you hear that?

— Word gets around.

— Yeah, that's what word does.

— Need any help? That shit's no good for none of us.

— Don'tÊ know what you'reÊ talking about.ÊÊ Everything'sÊ cool with me.

— Yeah.

He slips the goggles down and puts his hat back on.

— Guess that's why Bird's sending us to scoop you off the sidewalk on 55th.

I stick out my hand and he takes it.

— Thanks for the ride.

He keeps hold of my hand.

— I'd say anytime, but I'd be lying. You should drop all the Coalition and Society crap, Joe. You keep playing the ends against the middle, you're gonna get fucked.

I take my hand back and keep my mouth shut.

He shakes his head.

— OK, play it that way. But you don't belong with them, man. You belong with us, down under the bridge. You belong free.

— Nobody's free.

— Just looks that way to you, Joe.

He kicks the bike into gear and blows down the street. I watch him turn the corner onto A, then go inside.

Christian's one of mine. I didn't infect him, best I know I've never infected anyone, but I found him. He and his boys had taken up on that block of Pike not knowing that the Chinatown Wall had claimed it. They rumbled with the Wall. 'Course, they had no idea the Wall were all Vampyre. The Wall savaged his gang, left most drained and walked away from the mess. That's how those animals operated back then. This was 78, 79, and I was still with the Society. I went down there with Terry to clean things up. We pitched the bodies in the East River, but Christian still had some life. Terry figured him finished and was ready to dump him. I figured I owed someone else the same shot Terry had given me.

I took him to a Society safe house and got him through it. He'd seen plenty of weird shit, he'd seen what the Wall did to his friends. That was enough for him to believe. But once he was strong enough to move he split, wanted nothing to do with Terry's peace and love agenda. He tracked down what was left of his old gang and went to work, infecting them. It took him a year to build a new gang and then he went back to Pike Street, and the Dusters wiped out an entire generation of Wall. Only reason those Chinatown bastards are even considered a Clan anymore is because they've been around for so long. Nowadays the Dusters have their turf wired so tight that only the major Clans would think about walking Pike without an invitation.

I need to call Evie and tell her I'm OK. I need to call Terry and tell him I'll talk to him tonight, find out what I owe him for the rescue. I need to get back on the street and find the girl and the carrier. But first I need a drink. I don't know what Horde slipped me, but anything that could put me down that hard would have been lethal to someone uninfected. I still feel weak and sick as shit. So I open my fridge, more than a little concerned about how much I've been drinking, and find out I have more important things to worry about. It's gone. All my blood. Every drop. Gone.

The Enclave is set up in a warehouse on Little West 12th in the Meatpacking District. They don't lay claim to any turf outside their own front door, they don't have to. The Clans and the Rogues observe a no-man's-land that covers the entire West Side from 14th down to Houston. Nobody wants anything to do with them, least of all me. But someone was in my apartment, someone who didn't leave a trace, except for little erasures where his smell should have been. Erasures just like the ones I found in the classroom where I finished the shamblers. So it's time to go talk to Daniel.

I'm out in daylight for the second time in seventy-two hours, back in my burnoose, but I called a car service this time and specified tinted windows. I sit in the middle of the backseat, shifting from side to side as the sun strikes the windows, staying out of any direct rays. The tinting cuts down the long-wave UVs, but the shorts, the ones that really fuck us up, get through. I have the driver drop me at the corner of Little West 12th and Washington and walk down the block, keeping close to the buildings and the line of shade they cast on the sidewalk.

The Enclave warehouse looks like any of the others on this block, except for a total lack of graffiti or any other vandalism. The kids may not know exactly who those guys are in there, but they know they're bad. I climb the steps up to the loading dock and slide the huge steel door open on its tracks. They don't bother locking the door here. No one is stupid enough to fuck with them.

I step inside and slide the door closed behind me. It's dark, very dark. Nice. I take off my sunglasses.

— Simon.

I turn. I think it's the one who talked to me the other night.

— What did I tell you about that?

He smiles.

— I am sorry, it is just that you are so much more a Simon than a Joe. Which is as it should be.

— Just take me to Daniel, will you.

— Of course.

We cross the open space of the empty warehouse and shapes at the far end begin to resolve. At first it looks like rows and rows of white plaster lawn ornaments, and then they become Enclave. It looks like all of them, a hundred at the outside, the most feared of all the Clans. They sit cross-legged on the floor, motionless and silent, each of them dressed entirely in clothes as white as their pigmentless skin. My guide leads me through them. The ones in the back rows still have a bit of color to them and some flesh on their bones, but they get progressively paler and more emaciated as we move toward the front of the assembly. About halfway there my guide sits down in an empty space at the end of one of the lines. I stop, but he shakes his head and waves me forward.

At the front sits a single form, his back to me, facing the same direction as the others, but alone and separate from them. I stop. He's still for a moment, and then turns his head and looks up at me. He smiles and points at my white burnoose.

— Simon, how nice of you to dress for your visit.

Daniel looks like death. Exactly how you would expect death to look if he ever showed at your bedside with a scythe and a long list bearing your name inked in blood. Hairless, bone-white skin stretched tight over the skeleton beneath. He looks like death because he's dying. That's what they're all up to in here, slowly starving themselves to death.

We're walking up the stairs to the loft that runs along the back of the warehouse, and despite his skeletal state Daniel bounces lightly up the steps, radiating verve and barely restrained energy. At the top of the stairs he leads me down a narrow corridor that runs between a series of identical cubicles, each one containing nothing but a floor mat and a water jug. He steps into one of the cubicles on the left and I follow him in. There's an Enclave lying on the mat, shivering and sweating and nearly as wasted as Daniel. Daniel nods at him.

— He's failing.

Yeah, no shit.

Daniel points at the floor in a corner and I go sit there. He settles himself on the floor next to the dying Enclave, placing a hand on his forehead and gently stroking the sickly skin. The Enclave stops shivering.

— Failing, Simon, as we all do.

— All except you, right, Daniel?

He smiles, shrugs.

— Time will tell. But Jorge here, he's failing very quickly.

— Why?

— He's something of a fundamentalist in his beliefs. He chose to stop feeding entirely.

— Jesus. How long ago?

— Oh, several weeks now.

— And he's still alive?

— Well, that's a subject for some debate, is it not?

I watch as Daniel strokes the brow of the dying Enclave. He's right, they do all fail, the Enclave, fail and die. That's what happens when you stop feeding. The Vyrus wants you to feed, needs

you to feed. It strengthens you, sharpens your senses and motivates your body so that you will feed and consume more blood that will in turn feed it. Stop feeding and it will begin to consume your own blood, just as your body will eat itself if you deny it food. The Enclave feed only the barest amount. Are they doing it out of principle, denying themselves in order to spare the lives of others? No. They're doing it because they're a bunch of fucking spooks.

Jorge's breath is becoming more ragged, his lips peeling away from his gumless teeth, mouth stretched open, the air whistling in and out of his throat. Daniel leans forward and puts his mouth close to Jorge's ear and whispers to him. Shit, he's gonna croak right now. I start to get up to leave the room, but Daniel waves me back down. I don't want to see this, but you do what Daniel tells you when you're in his house.

Jorge's back arches off the floor and his fingers claw at the sleeping mat, digging little furrows in the thin bamboo reeds. Daniel is lying next to him now, pressing his body against Jorge's, stroking his face, whispering nonstop, chanting something. Crackling sounds are coming from Jorge's mouth, not like sounds he is making, but more as if something were breaking within him, echoing up his esophagus. His eyes fly open and thick white pus begins to ooze from their sockets. The crackling noise gets louder and his skin jumps and twitches as if bugs and snakes are trapped beneath it, struggling to burrow out. He begins opening and closing his mouth, his teeth snapping and gnashing at the air. The white puss is pouring down the sides of his face and one of his bugging eyes pops out of its socket and lolls against his cheekbone, and his head thrashes and bangs against the floor.

— Help me, Simon.

I don't move.

— Help me.

I crawl over, grab his tremoring legs and try to hold them down, but they kick loose.

— Hold him, Simon.

I grab the legs and pin them to the floor. He kicks and jerks and I force the legs back down and lie across them and he almost kicks free again. Daniel has wrapped his arms around Jorge's arms and torso. Still he beats and struggles and nearly bucks us both loose. His other eye has popped free, they both swing at the ends of their cables of nerves and blood vessels as his head shakes and twitches. He arches high in the air once, twice, and again. Each time his back cracks back down against the floor I hear bones breaking in his body. He's making vomiting noises now and it looks like he's spewing up his lungs. He arches high again, tossing both Daniel and me off of him, and smashes back onto the floor, and that's it. He lies there, his body barely recognizable as human, still and dead. Daniel stands up and offers me his hand. I ignore it and get up on my own.

— Thank you, Simon.

I stare at the remnant of Jorge.

— Someone took my stash, Daniel, all my blood.

He gives a slight laugh.

— I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place for a free meal.

The Enclave don't believe in the Vyrus. Or they believe in it, but they don't believe that it's a natural occurrence. Or they believe that it's natural, but not physical. Or something like that. What they believe, what I understand they believe, is that the Vyrus is supernatural in origin, not of this world. They believe in a whole supernatural universe. They believe that when you are consumed wholly by the Vyrus, your physical being becomes matter in the supernatural world, but your conscious-self expires. What they aspire to, what the whole starvation thing is about, is their belief that by starving yourself gradually, you can maintain your consciousness and self, and be made over into a supernatural being that will exist in this world. I don't know why that appeals to them, but it does. Of course, so far they've all ended up like Jorge. For centuries they've been ending up like that. Except Daniel.

We're sitting on the bottom step of the stairs that lead up to the cubicles, watching the Enclave as they go through their exercises. They're doing some Tai Chi kind of thing. So slow and precise you can't see them moving at all.

I look at the wall where they hung Jorge. They spread-eagled his body and spiked him to the cinderblock. Daniel is looking at him, too.

— We'll leave him there until his flesh rots away and his bones fall to the floor. He'll serve as a reminder and object lesson as to the transience of the physical. We'll meditate on his decay.

I could have been a part of this. I could have lived here with these freaks and devoted my life to the discipline of slowly dying. When I left the Society, Daniel sent for me. I had never met him before, never been on Enclave turf, but I went. I had just gone Rogue, if I wanted to survive I needed as many allies as I could get. I thought he might be looking for an errand boy, someone to handle security or something. What did I know? Instead he asked me to join, offered me a place as Enclave. It was kind of flattering, in the way it might be flattering if the craziest, baddest gang on the street offered you their colors. I declined, told him thanks and crossed my fingers as I went out the door, hoping they wouldn't tear me to pieces for turning them down. But that's not how they work. The Enclave don't take volunteers, they handpick new members, and once you're picked you're a part of them for life, whether you like it or not. Daniel says you're Enclave because you are made that way, not because of anything you do.

I say that's all well and good, but I'm still not planning on going out like Jorge did.

— The guy you sent to talk to me said someone was watching me.

— Was that anymore than what you already knew?

— Fuck sake, Daniel, can you just give me a straight answer?

— You haven't asked any questions.

I look away from Jorge.

— You know about the carrier, about what happened at the school?

— Yes.

-'Course you do, you know everything.

— Quite the contrary, I know virtually nothing.

— Yeah, right, in the big picture we're all fucking retards, but you know what goes down, Daniel. So the school, you know someone was poking around in there, someone who didn't leave a scent?

__Yes.

— Whoever it was is the same person who stole my stash, and I want to know who it is and why they did it. That's my question, Daniel, that's what I want to know.

He runs his spidery fingers over the top of his bald head.

— It's the wrong question, Simon.

— Then what's the right question? Will you tell me that, will you tell me that so I can ask it and get a straight answer?

— The question isn't who, but what.

— Bull.

— Someone has summoned it and bound it and sent it to do their bidding.

I stand.

— OK, time for me to go.

He reaches out and takes my hand. His skin is burning. He's starving the Vyrus, and so it has seized control of his autonomic functions, jacking his metabolism impossibly high as it compels him to feed. Dying slowly, balanced at the edge of starvation, the Vyrus gradually consuming him, he is continually in the grip of a feeding frenzy. It is the last death rattle of the Vyrus, when it empties your system of all its reserves, driving you to hunt. This is the state the Enclave cultivate, it is where Daniel has existed for no one knows how long. As strong as we may be when well fed, we are that much stronger when we are at the brink of starvation. Daniel holds my hand gently. If he twitches hell pull my arm from its socket. I don't move.

— You aren't listening, Simon.

I sit back down.

— How is it your mind can account for your own existence, but resist so stubbornly the idea that there are others like you, beyond you?

— Because I know I'm here and I know what I am.

— What are you?

— I'm a man. A sick man. And I want to know who grabbed my stash so I don't have to kill some jerk on the street and drink him.

— You're more than a man, Simon, much more. Your stash is gone? What of it? Stay with us. This could be a beginning, an opportunity.

I point at Jorge.

He smiles, nods, and lets go of my hand.

— It's a Wraith.

— Say what?

— The thing that was at the school and in your home, it's a Wraith.

Oh, shit.

— I don't believe.

— So you say. But it doesn't care if you believe in it or not. In fact, one is the same as the other. Believe in it, and it will be just as invisible to you as if you did not. Don't believe in it, and it will kill you as easily as if you did.

I close my eyes, rub the sweat from my forehead, and open my eyes. Crap.

— What do I do?

— Against something you say doesn't exist?

He shrugs.

— As I said, you can stay here. That is why I sent for you in the first place, Simon, to offer you the Enclave again. You can't fight the other world, you can only strive to join it.

I think about it, about a life in here. The Enclave are circling up now, two of them walk into the middle of the circle and begin to spar. It looks like a Hong Kong kung fu movie on fast forward. I can't follow the moves of the combatants, I just see a blurred tumble of limbs, hear the whir as their arms and legs cut the air and the loud clacks of their bones striking one another. It lasts only an instant, and then one of them is down with two broken legs. The others clear him from the floor. He may decide to take a little more blood to help heal the legs, or he might not and take his chances that they never knit properly. I think about starving myself, no longer worrying about where my next meal is coming from, spending my days in meditation and martial arts, perfecting my self-discipline. No more hand to mouth. No more being on my own. No more Evie.

No. It's not for me.

I stand up.

— Thanks for the offer, but the answer's still the same.

Daniel smiles.

— That's unfortunate.

— Yeah, well, sorry.

— Nonetheless, you are Enclave, Simon, and you can't be otherwise. And I'm happy to know we have you.

— Whatever.

— That's a healthy attitude to cultivate, whatever.

I turn to go, then turn back to him.

— So, assuming this Wraith thing is real?

— Yes?

— Any idea who might summon something like that?

He watches as another couple of Enclave begin to spar.

— You can't simply call these things into our world and command them. It takes knowledge and power, and one must have something to offer them. There are individuals who have knowledge in this area, and certainly we are acquainted with the metaphysical. But in terms of relevance to you? You might look at the Clans. Ask, what is the motive for the theft? Is it to weaken or to kill you? Perhaps it is meant to punish or to motivate you? Who do you know, Simon, that deals in carrots and sticks?

I nod.

— Thanks.

I head for the door. He calls after me.

— Come again, Simon, the door is always open.

I walk past the sparring Enclave. I think about the hundred of them on the streets one day, and I do mean one day. That's what it's all about, the starving and crossing over stuff. They think that when one of them finally manifests as a metaphysical being in the physical world that not only will he become invincible here, but he will be able to imbue the entire Enclave with similar abilities. Then they will begin their crusade in earnest, take to the streets and cleanse the world of all that is not Enclave. But they won't do it until they have their Messiah. So far Daniel's as close as they've got, and he's not there. Not yet. I walk out the door and close it behind me, hoping I never have to open it again.

I don't believe in another world where boogeymen lurk about and wait for opportunities to cause trouble in our world. I don't believe in any of that shit and I certainly don't believe in Wraiths. But I do believe that someone wants me to think that's the case, someone wants me scared and more than a little desperate. So who do I know that deals in carrots and sticks? Well, that's easy enough, everyone I work for. But I don't figure the Society for a gag like this, it's not really in their interest to have me desperate and hungry on their turf. Besides that, I don't think they have the chops or the subtlety to pull it off. No, this is a sneaky deal, and sneaky deals have one guy's name on them: Dexter Predo.

Figure Predo's not too happy with the way things are going down here. Figure he's caught on that the carrier is still out there. Figure Dale Edward Horde got on Predo's case for letting me hook up with his wife in public. Figure Predo told him he'd set it right and gave him something to plop in my drink, something to keep me down while they pulled the job on my place. Figure now Predo's got me by the shorties. He knows I'll be uptight without a stash. He knows the Society won't put up with me going on a rampage and tapping a bunch of clowns on their turf to restock my fridge. He knows I won't want to expose myself to the other Clans and Rogues by hitting on their turf. He knows pulling a job on a blood bank or a hospital takes time. And he knows I don't have that kind of time. Take all that and figure one last thing. Figure Predo's applied the stick and now all he has to do is wait for me to come to him thirsty and ragged and he can offer me the carrot, and then he'll have me in his back pocket. He can tell me just how to handle the carrier and the Horde kid and he can lock me up for a long way down the line. 'Cause restocking my stash is gonna cost and he'll make me pay with my balls. So I may as well hop on an uptown train and go get it over with. Except I don't.

I rush between patches of shade until I get to the L. I take it back across town and hurry to my pad. I still haven't called Evie to tell her I'm OK. For that matter, I still haven't cleaned up after sleeping on the sidewalk.

Out of the shower I call Evie.

— Hey, baby.

— You OK?

— Yeah, sure, babe, I'm fine.

— Was there any trouble?

Piles of it.

— Could've been, but Terry took care of it.

— Hope that was OK, me calling him. I didn't want to cause a fuss over nothing, but after that stuff with poor Lep I figured. .

— No, it's cool. You did right.

We hang on the phone for a second, listening to each other thinking. I'm thinking this is new territory for us. She's always made a point of staying out of my business and I've always made a point of keeping her out. I don't know what to think of her talking to Terry on her own, but I don't like it much. As for her, I don't have a clue what she's thinking about.

I hear her shift the phone, her short fingernails clicking against the mouthpiece as she brushes her hair out of the way.

— I'm off tonight.

Tuesday, one of her nights off. Date night for us.

— Yeah, babe, probably not a good night for it.

She makes a little sucking sound, her tongue pulling down from the roof of her mouth. It's the sound she makes when she's starting to get bugged.

— Right. 'Cause you got the thing you're working on.

— Yeah.

-'The thing that got Leprosy killed.

— Evie.

— That you won't tell me about.

— Not now, OK?

— Even though I was the one washing Lep's blood off you.

— I said not now.

— OK, then when, Joe? When do I ever get to know what you're

up to?

— Just. Not now.

— Not now. Where have I heard that before?

She pushes all the air out of her lungs; it's the sound a person makes when they're trying to keep their cool, the one Evie makes when her cool's already been lost.

— There's only so much a girl will take, Joe. Even a girl you can't fuck.

She hangs up. And can you blame her?

So that's one more thing for me to deal with. I'd like it to be at the top of my list, but it's not. Instead my list reads something like this:

1)Ê Find carrier.

2) Find Horde girl.

3) Find out who is spying on me.

4) Call Terry.

5) Deal with Predo.

6) Make up with girlfriend.

Oh, and at the top of that list you can add, GET SOME BLOOD. But the phone call is the only one that looks doable right now, so I call Terry.

— Joe, I really wanted to talk to you, man.

— We're talking, Terry.

— Yeah, but the phone. Not the same as sitting down face-to-face, you know.

— I could see you later tonight.

— No, no good, I have to go uptown tonight.

— Uptown?

— Above a hundred and tenth.

— Hood?

— Grave Digga is talking war parties again and I want to see if I can mellow him out.

— Tomorrow night, then.

— I may have to crash up there a couple nights. I got transit on a boat, but the pilot can't guarantee a return trip. And the way things are with the Coalition these days, I don't think they'll be laying any passes on me to cross their turf.

He's right about that. At the best of times the Coalition wouldn't be looking to do Terry any favors, but with all the dust being kicked up down here they'll be twice as hardcase about it. And that's assuming they don't know he's going to talk to the Hood.

The Hood is an offshoot of the Coalition. Back in the sixties, about the same time Terry was organizing the Society, Luther X organized all the blacks and Latinos in the Coalition, split them off and took control of everything above One Tenth. A truce was negotiated and the Coalition ceded the territory, but they didn't like it. All the same, things were pretty peaceful between them until last year. Last year someone stuck a couple knives through Luther's eyes and his warlord DJ Grave Digga took over the Hood. He went on a purge and claimed he found Coalition agents in the Hood who had assassinated Luther. Since then he's been sending raiding parties below the border and trying to get Terry and the Society to hook up with him to wipe out the Coalition. Not my problem.

— Then I guess we'll just have to talk now. What do you want?

— Just wanted to talk with you, have a little communication about everything that's been going down.

— I mean, what do you want for getting the Dusters to pick me up?

— Hey, Joe. That was an act of humanity. I know what it's like up there. Your girl calls me and tells me you went to meet some

client and you're not back? Then she tells me the meet was uptown? What am I gonna do, not care? And from what I hear, you needed the help. Christian tells me you were zonked out on the sidewalk with a bunch of homeless people, getting ready to work on your tan.

— Yeah, so what do you want?

— What I want, what I wanted, man, was to rap, make sure you're OK. You don't want to come over, that's your business-We're all free to do as we please.

— I don't like open accounts, Terry. What do you want?

He chuckles.

— I know. Joe don't take nothing from nobody, good or bad. I was just trying to do the right thing by a guy who used to be my friend. A guy, by the way, I still think of as a friend.

— Funny, last time this friend saw you, he ended up getting a couple ribs cracked by your mick thug.

— That wasn't personal, Joe, that was politics. I needed to throw Tom a bone to keep him from going radical on us. That was for the greater good. And I'd prefer it if you didn't use terms like mick.

— OK, Terry, you'll let me know when you want to collect. In the meantime I'll throw you this. Tom was right, someone else was poking around at the school, looking into what happened with those shamblers.

— Victims of Zomb--The fucking walking corpses, whatever you want to call them. Someone else was taking an interest.

— Any idea who?

— All I know is that it's someone very private, someone doesn't like to leave anything behind, not even a scent. Sound like anyone you know?

He's quiet for a sec. I let it dangle there.

— No, I don't think so, Joe, no one I know.

— You might want to keep your eyes peeled. Because whoever it is, they're creeping around on your turf.

I hang up. Let him chew on that. Maybe he'll poke around and find something out. Be nice to have someone doing my dirty work for a change.

There's still time till the sun goes down, time to kill before I can go looking for the girl and the carrier.

The girl and the carrier.

Something snaps together in my head.

Oh fuck.

I smell my hand. It's not there anymore, I washed it off in the shower. I go to the heap of dirty laundry in the corner. I throw the burnoose to the side, find the black jeans I had to wear to the Cole last night because Lep's blood had ruined my suit. I hold them to my face and sniff, cigarette smoke, the dirty pavement I slept on, my own sweat. Same thing with the shirt I wore. But he touched me, I know he did, shook my hand and gave me that fake hearty slap on the shoulder. Where's my jacket? I slide open the closet door and take my jacket off the hanger. It's the nice one, the lightweight leather sport coat Evie bought me. It's got a scuff on the sleeve from last night's nap on the sidewalk. I put my nose against the right shoulder and inhale.

There it is, that smell. The one I smelled on my hand last night after Horde and I shook. That odor from the school. That musky sex scent that was all over the cardboard mattress and the zombie girl. It was on Horde's hands. It was all over him, but I couldn't smell it because the reek of Leprosy's blood was still in my hair and nostrils.

They have names, the shamblers from the school have names. The boys' were Joey Boyles and Zack Blake. The girl's name was Whitney Vale. That's the one I care about.

She was nineteen, born and raised in Nyack. Her mom says she split as soon as she turned eighteen and she'd only seen her a couple times in the last year when she showed up to ask for money. The dad's been a no-show since she was born. She was working part-time as a bag checker at one of the used record stores on St. Marks. The manager says she hadn't shown up for a week or two. I get all this off my computer when I check the sites for the Times, News and Post. I try Googling her name and get the articles I just read along with the AP coverage, and some creep claiming he has nude pics of her that he's willing to sell.