The Product Line (Book 1): Product Page 11

  --Take him back to the Chapel. We got ourselves a lot of things to figure out tonight.

  Tayvon is sandwiched into the car by another banger. As the car starts up a thin tributary of blood begins to paint itself from the thicker stream coming from the wound on his temple, down his cheek and past his nose, turning sharply as it angles in toward the edge of his mouth. The narrow line of red begins to form a puddle in the crease of his lips. Tayvon’s tongue slides out from his mouth, searching for it, and wipes it from his lips.

  The car, now filled up with the rest of the NHP less Dit-Low and Endo, pulls out and on to the road heading west. Dit-Low watches intently as the vehicle makes its way down the road. He turns to Endo and spits on the ground before speaking.

  --What you think is going on? No way he shoulda heard us. No way he coulda heard us.

  As he finishes his words he turns toward the NHP vehicle as the engine revs up and the vehicle swerves sharply. A gunshot rings out from inside the vehicle and the car careens into the corner of one of the tenement buildings. After a few moments of the vehicle rocking violently from side to side the scuffle comes to a stop.

  Both Endo and Dit-Low start running toward the vehicle and are still nearly a block away when the rear door is kicked clean off its hinges. It flies off as if hit by a wrecking ball and comes to rest nearly ten feet away.

  --What the…?

  Tayvon steps out, his hands pressed tightly to his side. Blood covers his face and hair as the white fabric of his T-shirt soaks up blood from a wound in his gut, like blotter paper soaking in ink.

  --Hey yo, Tay. What the fuck, man?

  Tayvon looks at Endo and Dit-Low approaching and runs off, turning sharply into an alleyway. For someone recently shot, the pace is remarkable.

  Endo and Dit-Low close in on the vehicle. Steam pours out from the hood as the engine hums and grinds. Moans of pain can be heard from inside.

  Endo opens up the driver’s side door as Dit-Low rounds to the side which has been unhinged. The driver is most definitely dead. His head hit the windshield on impact, but the right side of his neck and shoulder is completely shredded. Muscle and sinew are easily visible. Endo reaches in and shuts off the engine.

  Dit-Low looks in and is met with an unexpected image. Chubbs, the heavyset banger who rode in the back with Tayvon, is dead. His neck and face are racked with deep gouges and teeth marks. What remains of his blood is pooled on the floorboard of the back seat.

  --Man, I ain’t got no idea what’s going on with that nigga.

  --He scratched Chubbs’ face off, man.

  Dit-Low withdraws his gun, checks that a round is chambered and that his clip is full. He bumps the clip back into the butt of the gun, and slides the gun into his waistband. Dit-Low starts shouting into the air.

  --Yo, Tay! It’s cool, man. We just wanna talk. I’m starting to believe your story about all them other boys getting killed! Come on, Tay, let’s talk this out.

  The shrill cry of police sirens begin to ripple in from the distance.

  --Dammit!

  Endo and Dit-Low turn from the scene and start jogging off under the overpass and down a small retaining wall that leads to an exposed area of subway tracks. They continue on foot a few blocks before turning back up on to the street, well clear of the wrecked car. Endo turns to Dit-Low.

  --You think Tayvon killed them boys?

  --Oh, most definitely I do. I don’t know where he put them, but I assure you, that mothafucka killed ’em.

  Chapter 16

  In a city of over eight million people the odds of running into someone you know are slim. Squeeze all those people onto an island that is only three hundred and five square miles and create a mass transit and thoroughfare system that restricts the flow of pedestrian traffic to only a few hundred roads and the odds of running into someone you know—well, they go up significantly.

  For the last year, Ernie has been able to avoid encountering anyone who knows him. In his previous life he was a loner. He was just one of thousands of forgettable people on the island, a set of pleading eyes and outstretched hands performing a subconscious emotional shakedown of all the passersby.

  Of the few people Ernie does know from the streets, he just hasn’t seen them. Not that they would recognize him anyway. He is clean-shaven, bathed on the regular and instead of the limping, gaunt, gap-toothed, borderline corpse, this new Ernie looks like he could be some kind of underwear model. Any unkempt hair or disheveled clothing simply look like an act, some sort of new hipster aesthetic choice.

  But since his brush with the Rage, something inside him is shifting. As if the changes to his hands and eyes are just the first few pebbles of a coming landslide. He can feel a deep shift under his skin. Good or bad, something is happening to him and before whatever it is that is going to happen, he is damn sure going to get some answers. Things are getting a bit too out of hand, the information given to him by Gideon and the community is coming up short. And the dots are not joining the way that they should, especially for a man whose viral enhancements directly enhance his ability to see the connections.

  There is apparently another faction of infected, ones with his particular species of poison, some monster on a rooftop, the Rage… yeah, shit is getting out of control and before it gets more messed up, he is going to get some answers from somebody.

  Ernie walks, his singular purpose being led by his nose through the streets. He weaves in and out of other pedestrians, his sense of smell staying locked on to that hint of familiar venom in the air. That sour sting of the Virus. It hangs in his nose and in his mouth as he breathes, like the sour bite of food that is about to turn. His keen eyes are almost able to track the dissipating molecules in the air, like some ghost of heat shifting the air above an open flame. As if in a trance he walks onward, one purpose moving him forward step by step—answers. The sound of the city around him fades away as he focuses more and more on the scent, on tracking the Virus. It would appear that with his even more honed senses, there is an even greater ability to focus. To block out everything else but what you are concentrating on.

  No matter how focused he is, there is one sound that can always pull him back. It can pull him from the deepest booze haze and from the darkest thoughts. One sound that tugs at every string left in his heart.

  --Dad?

  It’s Marie.

  The only voice that he can possibly single out from the background noises of a crowd. The only sound that can shake him.

  Before he can stop himself he turns toward her, then, remembering that he cannot explain his existence, cannot explain anything about how he looks or where he has been or what he is doing, he quickly swallows back his smile and turns his expression to that of a puzzled man. As Marie runs closer, Ernie tries to simply keep walking. But he is stopped by a tug at his arm.

  --Wait… Dad… Is that—?

  Ernie swallows deeply, and does his best to turn on a quality act. Marie tugs at his arm again and Ernie turns around. Her eyes probe deep into his bloodstained eyes, looking, as she always could, past his appearance and into his heart.

  --What the fuck, lady?

  Marie eyes him suspiciously. He can tell that she can’t believe what she sees, and can’t accept what she is thinking.

  --Oh. I… uh… I, um… I’m sorry.

  --Do I look like I could be your dad?

  Ernie swallows, crushed that he has to watch his daughter once again go through the pain of accepting Ernie’s demise. Hector catches up to the two of them, and turns to Marie.

  --You OK?

  --Yeah… I just thought… I don’t know what I thought.

  For good measure Ernie slips in one more insult, hoping to forever put to rest Marie’s suspicions.

  --Hey, man, control your bitch.

  Without hesitation, Hector pulls back and decks Ernie.

  --Show some respect!

  It’s a perfect punch. As Ernie falls backwards to the ground, he can tell that it has even loosened a to
oth—which will firmly root itself back into place, or if it does fall out, sprout anew soon. Ernie knows that the two of them are romantically involved. From the man’s stance, he cares about Marie, and from his willingness to defend her, he can protect her.

  His form is so perfect that this young man is clearly no stranger to fighting. Hector quickly tries to reform himself, tries to return to the sweet and loving boyfriend and not the brutal rage-filled animal with a darker past than Marie can possibly know. Yes, Ernie knows this boy. He knows the type. He has seen that rage in many others who now inhabit the Farm. But perhaps this one is a little different, a man struggling to find change, to find meaning.

  All these thoughts take place in a fraction of a moment. Before Ernie even begins to stand up he has completely evaluated and summarized Hector’s life.

  --Oh my God, I am so sorry.

  Marie, now grasping that this can’t be her father and that her boyfriend has just pummeled another man in the face for no reason, is ashamed and crestfallen. She runs over to Ernie’s side. Ernie starts to right himself when Marie crouches down to assist him.

  --Please, mister, I am so sorry.

  In the scuffle Ernie’s dog tags have spilled out through the loose collar of his drug store t-shirt. Marie sees the dog tags hanging out from Ernie’s shirt and spins them to get the man’s name.

  --Mister… uh.

  She stops on the name before Ernie can wrench the tags away.

  Deep down maybe he wants her to know. Certainly he has the speed and reflexes to prevent her. But here they are now. This moment of revelation. Time slows to a crawl as Marie’s eyes scan across the name punched into the dingy old metal tags. As her eyes roll off the last letter in the name, her pupils begin to pulse open, her heartbeat racing. It’s the tell-tale sign of blood pressure plummeting as the world falls out from under. Shock, disbelief, panic. It’s an emotional cocktail that is served up at the most trying and difficult of moments.

  Ernie stands as Marie backs away in a state of disbelief. She looks into him, past his eyes and appearance and youth, and with the softest of voices says but one word.

  --How?

  Ernie smiles warmly and walks away as Hector puts his arms around Marie.

  The entire exchange from the moment she says “Dad” to the moment her youthful father turns and walks into the crowd has taken only seconds. A few brief moments that have changed everything for her, and perhaps for Ernie as well.

  --It was him.

  --Honey, he’s dead. Your father is dead. That was just some kid. Maybe, just somebody who looked like him? Hey… Come here.

  Hector puts his arms around Marie, holds her tightly as she starts to sob.

  --Hector, I’m telling you… That was my father.

  Chapter 17

  The searing pain in his side has stopped. But the pulsing thump in his head is getting stronger. Tayvon’s thoughts and perception are fragmented, allowing only brief glimpses of the present, awash in a sea of confusion and some unknown and powerful driving desire. The drumming beat of heavy electronic bass from the stereos of nearby cars creates a background soundtrack to this bizarre yet bliss-filled nightmare.

  This haze or loss of blood, or shock or whatever, it’s like he is drifting in and out of sleep while watching a slideshow of evil. Moments of conscious lucidity mixed with brief images of absolute horror. Vague unreal memories of trying to eat people, digging through skin like some starving animal trying to get to a hidden meal. The metallic taste of copper and fresh meat mixing in his mouth fuel this unknown hunger and confirm to him that these images he is seeing are real, these terrible actions happening in front of him are the result of his own hands.

  Try as he might, his will is not strong enough to stem the flow of blood and destruction. He has counted at least a dozen people who have been eviscerated by his hands. Pedestrians on the street, people casually sitting on their stoop, concerned Good Samaritans asking if he is hurt. Even for a cold-blooded killer, what he sees himself doing is too much to take. Even though the reward of each drink is a pleasure unlike anything he has ever felt, he is compelled to stop the massacre. Using what small amount of will he has, he manages to steer the lumbering golem of insatiable thirst toward an open cut in the subway line, a path into the all-too-familiar tunnel system heading downtown.

  As he approaches the fencing to the tracks he finds a homeless man sprawled out on the ground, sleeping away his day’s choices. Before he has any chance to stop himself he tears through the man’s face and throat and drinks deeply of this dirty vagrant and his polluted blood. The warm rush of the fluid splashing against the back of his throat fills him with such unparalleled joy that he loses himself in the moment once again. He gives into the will of this darker desire and the rewards of these gruesome acts.

  When he is once again aware of himself and his surroundings he can see that he is no longer above ground, but has made his way into the tunnel system of the subway. The usually pitch-dark tunnels are alive with clarity. He can see the individual bricks in the walls and the structural latticework of the overhead supports. He can see the graveled rocks below his feet that support the train’s heavy rails. Things that would normally require a powerful flashlight are clear as can be, as if the whole inner tunnel has been illuminated by the sun.

  He continues into the tunnel system, watching his actions more than consciously affecting them. Pushing further he becomes aware of an approaching light and the screech of thousands of pounds of steel moving quickly along the tracks from the deep abyss of the tunnels toward his location. It creeps nearer like some distant predator. Some small pulse of fear creeps through the haze of bliss and desire. His conscious mind knows what the consequences of a fifteen-car subway train hitting his six-foot frame will be, but still does not have control over his actions. As the train gets closer and closer, all he can do is watch as he approaches his inevitable end. He has dodged many of these in the past and can see the architectural sections that would allow for him to tuck into the wall to avoid being hit, but he cannot move himself to those locations.

  With only fifteen feet left before it is upon him, he accepts that this will be his end, and relinquishes any control that he might have had to his instincts.

  Tayvon’s body hurls itself into the air and grasps onto the structural supports above. He pulls himself high above the passing train, which zooms by beneath him, screeching like a banshee as it slides across the metal rails and pulls a long column of heated air behind it. At this impossibility, his conscious mind simply gives up.

  ***

  A deep rumbling sound rouses Tayvon from his haze. He is in control of his body again, the bliss has faded from him and with it the uncontrollable thirst.

  Tayvon surveys what is around him. He is perched precariously above the subway tracks, impossibly balanced in the beams of the support structure. The rumbling is the sound of an approaching train, which slides by underneath his location at breakneck pace.

  In a panic Tayvon lifts his shirt remembering that he was shot and likely dying. Instead of a hole there is perfect unblemished skin. His arm, which was shredded to pieces, is also completely healed. Tayvon removes his shirt, which is now stiff and dark brown in color from all the dried blood, a firm reminder that the events of the previous day were indeed real.

  Tayvon wipes at his mouth, brushing the caked-on blood rimming his face, and picks congealed pieces out of his chin hair and sideburns. He inspects the rest of his body. His earrings have been forced out of his ear and the holes have closed up. On his shirt appears to be dried ink, mirroring the tattoos that formerly resided in those locations, as if the ink itself was forced right out of the skin. No keloids or scars. No evidence of any of his childhood injuries. It’s as if he has a brand new body—a strong one too, as he realizes that he is still squatting over subway train tracks without even the hint of fatigue in his muscles.

  --What the…

  Bright columns of sunlight streak in from a handful of pl
aces in the superstructure above. One such column extends a few feet in front of him. Its glow is so bright he finds himself drawn to it. He can’t believe that it is only light and not something more, something enticingly angelic. He easily slides his body over onto another beam and reaches out to touch the light, expecting it to have mass and form.

  When his hand slips underneath it is met instantly with intense pain, as if he has grabbed a hot dish straight from the oven. He recoils to assess the damage, of which there is none—simply the lingering burn in his skin, no blisters or bubbling flesh, which he would have expected from such an intense pain.

  Tayvon drops from the support beams to the railway below, landing gracefully on the ground with hardly a sound. He stretches out, feeling this new strength coursing through him, and decides to test if the way he feels is actually the way he feels. Refreshed, strong, weightless. He starts running down the tracks, taking care to avoid the third rail, and can tell that his pace is incredibly fast. After a few minutes of sprinting he realizes that he doesn’t feel any fatigue. His muscles feel new and fresh and his lungs easily take in air and pump oxygen to his limbs. His whole bodily system feels supercharged and alive.

  The excitement about his apparent new powers stops briefly as he begins to further consider the carnage of the previous night. He can only hang on to brief glimpses with any real clarity, but what there is to remember is horrifying. The sense memories of eating people, biting into their flesh and drinking them down, screams and terror. Tayvon is in no way unfamiliar with brutality, but certainly there is a line between being a tough guy and being what would in all ways be considered a serial killer. It was like he was rabid, unable to stop himself, unable to find himself in his actions. Weighing the equal parts of excitement and fear about this new condition would have been tough, if he does not have such remarkable experience with simply bottling up his emotions. Small price to pay, he rationalizes, and puts his guilt and conscience to bed.