The Product Line (Book 1): Product Page 9
Ernie shakes his head, rubs his eyes, and the effect goes away. As he is rubbing his eyes he notices his hands, perhaps for the first time since he awoke from the bliss. They are no longer the delicate-looking hands of new skin but rather a more weathered and leathery texture. He strokes the lines of his finger and palm prints. The texture of his palm is more like stone than skin, calloused and coarse. His nails are slightly longer and far stronger than before.
Realizing that he is clothed, he wonders to himself what else may have changed, desperately hoping that his member is not a calloused lump now as well. He never gets to use the thing these days—well, really he hasn’t had a proper fuck in a decade, at least not one that he wants to remember. But still, it would be hard to explain to a willing participant should the opportunity arise in the future. Never considered to be a man of overwhelming modesty, he proceeds to check on the status of his dick. He is relieved to find it shipshape and not a calcified caveman club.
***
Ernie finishes three more cigarettes before they get back into the city, each subsequent one declining in quality. He raps on the panel behind Nathan and asks if he can be let out here.
--Ernie, you sure you don’t want me to let you out by your place? You got a solid two-mile walk from here.
--If you don’t mind? I need the fresh air, and these fucking losers aren’t going anywhere.
Nathan reluctantly obliges and Ernie steps out, carefully ensuring that the doors to the van don’t open too wide or allow any wayward eyes to see the back filled with handcuffed and bagged gangbangers. He walks up to Nathan and thanks him for the lift. Nathan hands him another few dram vial filled with product.
--Here you go. You’re going to need this. Get home. Dose up and get on the mend. You really don’t look so hot.
--Thanks. I’m fine, and I will.
--And let’s not have a poor showing like this again in the future, eh?
--I think I probably doomed myself to two years of “told-you-so’s” from Claude.
--Ernie, you’ve done us all in.
The two smile as Ernie slaps the door of the van and turns, starts making his way south, figuring that if he is going to find out anything about this other group, this will be the place to start looking.
As he cranes his head around he is simply amazed at the world. All around him, nested throughout the city, are the faintly glowing circulatory systems and beating hearts of the city’s inhabitants. He can hear their conversations. Everything is clear and simultaneously jumbled. The more he strains to see the glowing systems the clearer they become. The less he focuses, the more the glow fades.
Ernie sits at a bench on the west edge of the Park. He sniffs the air around him; it is alive with the smells of food and sweat and garbage and breath. Like a bloodhound he is able to discern each note of each smell, each ingredient.
After a few moments concentrating, he begins to pull out the unmistakable scent of the infected. The sweet venom wafting through the air hidden in the other smells of the city. It isn’t much, but it’s a start. Ernie rubs his coarse palms together like two large pumice stones, huffs into his hands and starts to walk.
Realizing that his bloodstained outfit looks a bit suspect, he decides to change up his outfit on the fly. He slips into a Duane Reade one block over and pulls down one of the shirts hanging on a modest endcap near the register. A grey slim-fit T-shirt with the slogan I ♥ NYC. He sets it on the counter.
--Lemme grab a pack of smokes, whatever you got. It don’t really matter.
The girl responds without ever lifting her gaze.
--We have over forty types.
Ernie shrugs.
--Just grab something, whatever. It doesn’t really matter. They all taste like shit, right?
The girl reaches for a pack of Virginia Slims 100s and then changes her mind at the last second and grabs a pack of Camel instead.
--Here, these aren’t that bad.
He catches the eye of the young girl at the register, who’s clearly less put off by the bloody and bullet-riddled dress shirt than she should be. He can smell the cheap Canal Street knock-off perfume she has hosed herself with to hide the musky scent of recent sex. Ernie still forgets sometimes that he looks as young as the rest of “the kids these days.” He can easily hit on a girl in her twenties without there being any issues or concerns about age difference.
Ernie decides to explain the carnage on his shirt.
--Indie zombie film. Shooting up the road. My big break hopefully.
She nods, lets out a meager smile.
--That’s cool. I like your contacts.
Not knowing how to respond to the statement, he looks above the register to catch a glimpse of his eyes in the mirrored glass angled around the store to help prevent shoplifting. The outsides of his iris are drawn in a thin line of red, with tiny bloodshot wisps stretching out from the edge of his iris to the far corners of his eyes. As he focuses more on the reflection to get a clear zoom on the image the thin angel’s hair-fine wisps grow and pulsate. Under his breath he huffs, stops focusing as hard and the wisps recede back to the edges of his iris.
--You got to be fucking kidding me.
--Excuse me?
--Nothing, just… here add these to it.
Ernie throws out a cheap pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses from the small display on the countertop. The cashier scoops them up and scans them. Ernie pays and takes his change, walking toward the door, when the cashier calls out to him.
--Good luck with all that.
Even though he’s used to the pain, the bliss, the need for the product, his new enhancements as one of the infected, his ability to heal, he still has the most trouble understanding or dealing with kind words from others. He simply can’t accept that he is indeed attractive to the opposite sex.
He grumbles his frustration and as his feet hit the concrete sidewalk outside he pulls off the old blood-drenched shirt and tosses it into an open-topped wire garbage can on the corner. A woman passing by admires his muscular frame and comments on the dog tags nesting between his chiseled pecs, which he has developed without any effort of his own.
--Looking good, soldier boy.
Ernie nods uncomfortably and quickly throws on the new t-shirt. Aside from the bloodstains on his dark pants he looks no less presentable than the rest of the mopes out this late wandering the street. To hide his creepy new eye effects he throws on the aviators.
--The perfect douchebag.
He mumbles to himself as he catches his reflection off a passing car’s window. After a moment, he pulls the sunglasses off and tosses them in the trash too.
--Fuck it.
Ernie stands at the corner for a second and waits for the scent to catch his nose. After a few moments it hits him, the unique scent of the venom, the Virus. It starts his blood pumping and tickles at his insides like a first kiss. Ernie starts walking, following the scent and its origins, whatever or whoever the scent is coming from. As he walks toward the source, he hopes that it will have some answers.
Chapter 12
Romania, 1739
Poor Antonios lies dying slowly in a room with the other victims of Eliska. Their muted moans and whispers fill the small earthen hut, quivering bodies being taken over by fever and pain. Hearts and bodies shattered.
He has awoken for the first time since the attack, scared and heartbroken. Evidence of the horrors that claimed most in his village and his beloved mama surround him.
Little Antonios reaches to feel the hole in his face. He knows it is there, but his probing fingers do not find it—instead he feels the scruff of previously non-existent facial hair. He is fevered but somehow still alive. Alesh, an old woman and herbalist from the village, enters the hut carrying a clay pot filled with water; she takes it around the room, offering it to each person. Antonios remembers Alesh from the illness a year prior, how she helped all those afflicted with illness and provided comfort to the dying.
She stops at Antonios.
--Antonios?
--Yes.
--No. No. You are not Antonios.
Alesh retreats from his bedside, dropping the clay pot, which shatters on the ground, spilling the water into the earthen floor.
--Diavol! Diavol!
She shrieks at the top of her lungs, running out from the hut and into the night. Some of the more lucid dying people crane toward Antonios, their faces hollow with fear. The cries within the tent start first as whimpers and grow into a chorus of hysterics.
--Diavol! Diavol! The demon, it lives!
Fearful of the return of the demon, Antonios uses what remains of his strength to hoist himself up from the straw mattress. His balance is off, everything feels different, he feels taller. He is taller. His thighs have split the fabric of his pants, and his shirt is tattered and shredded, hanging just barely over his belly button.
His body is entirely unfamiliar to him.
--What is this?
He has awoken in the body of a man.
--Please help. Please help me. I don’t understand.
His pleas are met with the cowering terror of the others in the room. Antonios hears the sound of approaching feet on the ground outside. Not knowing what else to do, and certain that those coming for him are not coming to help, he runs from the hut as fast as his now long legs will carry him.
With each frantic step towards the woods, tears pump from the corners of his eyes. What is happening to him, why are the others calling him a demon, a devil? He moves quickly and gracefully, more so than he ever has in his life. The burning embers of the town’s outer buildings provide enough smoke cover for him to reach the tree line undetected, leaving only whirling wisps of smoke behind his path.
As he settles to the ground, shouts from the town curse him.
--Do not return, demon!
--May your soul be cast into everlasting damnation.
The voices of once-friendly neighbors and relatives call out the most horrible and vile of curses and threats. They paint a tapestry of heartache in the air around him. Antonios drops his head into his hands and weeps large tears from this unfamiliar body.
He has lost everything. His mother, his friends, his home. All that remains now is hatred from those he has spent his entire life living with. It is a heavy burden for the heart of a child, despite his now man-like frame.
***
The night begins to give way to the dawn. Antonios has not moved from the ground. He has spent the last few hours taking notice of all the changes to his body, the hair now located under his arms and running down from his navel to his nethers. In his solemn sadness he begins to see that more than just his body has changed—the world around him has seemingly changed as well. Everything is brighter and more vivid, sounds are louder and richer. The air, though filled with smoke, also carries the sweet smell of blossoming pheasant’s eye and peppers and the sting of death and sickness from those in the hut and recently buried. Thick luminous bands of light fill the air above him. The night sky is alive with the glow of stars, thousands more than he was ever able to see before.
Antonios hears the beginnings of dissent from the remaining villagers. It starts as harsh words thrown towards one another. Then the accusations. They could all be touched by the demon. The few healthy men and women who have not lost a spouse or a child are the most vocal to express their fear and concern for the others, that the others will change and take in the demon. What starts as fearful clamors grows in intensity very quickly until the group’s fear is made manifest.
Antonios watches from afar as the healthy villagers gather the remaining survivors of the attack and drag their limp and dying bodies to a downed tree just outside the hut. The men lay the survivors, who struggle desperately against them, across a tree stump and hack at their throats until their heads drop to the ground. Shrieking women and family members dare not challenge them. Instead they grieve near the slaughter, pleading for mercy, pleading that the attacked be given the chance to live.
With each chop the fear in Antonios’ belly begins to change. Starts to morph into something darker. A hatred begins brewing in him, a dark rage.
The sun presses into the morning sky. As it does, it throws rays of warm yellow light through the smoke and into the edge of the woods. The light lands on Antonios like a swarm of bees. It stings at his arms and legs and face. He moves deeper into the woods to hide, to avoid this new pain. In his hurried search he sees that nowhere in the woods is there a space untouched by this light. Finally he settles on a more shaded area and begins to dig into the ground, his larger man hands scooping big piles of loose soil out with each motion.
After he has uncovered a small shallow pit he slides himself into it and pulls the dirt and leaves on top of him. He loosely piles leaves on his face, making sure that his breath is still able to escape. He tries to sleep, to drift off into a slumber, but finds that it doesn’t come. Instead of rest, he is faced with the grim reality that he is exceedingly aware of the world around him in his earthen hole. He can hear the movement of bugs in the loose dead foliage and feel as they take each ginger step on his body. He can sense the worms in the dirt trying futilely to navigate through his body. Their wriggling movements tickle at him as they work trying desperately to assess what exactly he is. Time seems to stop.
After an eternity of stillness and hyperawareness Antonios decides it is time to see if the sun has dropped down. Somehow while lying still, blocked from the sunlight, trapped inside his own thoughts, he is able to assess what time it is. As he slides back the leaves from his face he is aware of two things: the night is upon him, and there is a dark yearning inside him, an urge unlike anything he has ever felt before.
A need to feed.
He brushes the remaining dirt and plant matter from his body, and as if driven by something inside him, some hidden master, he makes his way back toward the village.
He approaches the downed tree where the villagers relieved the survivors of their heads. There are thick gobs of blood dried into the nooks and channels of the tree’s mangled bark. With each step closer he becomes more and more aware of the scent given off by the dried blood. It has a sweet enticing aroma that fills his mouth with saliva.
Without any thought or sense of impropriety he leans his face toward the tree and laps at the congealed blood, unleashing a flood of emotion into his body. This is what he hungers for; this is the water to quench his fire. After a few moments he turns toward the homes in the village with one certainty in his mind. He needs blood.
The smoldering embers of the once-vibrant village work only to highlight the few remaining buildings still standing. The orange glow of firelight pours out from only a handful of huts—the survivors. He licks at his lips, trying to contain his saliva and savor the flavor that remains in his mouth, and starts making his way through the central area of the village toward the subtle sound of drumming.
Before he is a hundred yards away he is able to see a man leaning against a pile of rubble, his head down, only occasionally raising his eyes to scan the horizon. Antonios sees him clear as day, maybe even clearer than during the day. The man’s thick beard hangs just below his shirt collar, and he has a flintlock rifle resting against the rubble. It is Dimitru’s father, and it is abundantly clear that he does not see Antonios.
Tears glint on his cheek as the moon is reflected from them. Antonios can hear his quiet sobs. He remembers seeing Dimitru’s mother in the tent when he awoke, a horrid wound to her neck and shoulder, but he did not remember seeing Dimitru or his final fate. Antonios moves closer to the man. He can hear the thumping, a dependable rhythm. The closer Antonios gets, the more his mouth begins to water, his mind moving to the darkest of thoughts and desires. When he is nearly thirty yards away it becomes clear that the drum sound is the beating of the man’s heart.
Liquor burns on the man’s breath. Perhaps he was asked to take guard, perhaps he was so filled with sorrow that he came outside to drink himself to death. Antonios takes another
few steps. The man is crying over the remains of Dimitru, his little body burned and gnarled from the fire. What might have inspired devastating sadness only a few short hours ago has almost no impact on Antonios.
Antonios covers the remaining twenty-five yards in a few quick bounds and is upon the man in no time. Expecting him to reach for his rifle, Antonios grabs it and throws it away.
--Go ahead, demon. I will not contest. You have taken everything. There is nothing left of me.
Antonios crooks his head and without another thought tears into the man’s neck, drinking deeply from the fountain of blood erupting into his mouth. His mind explodes into waves of pleasure, a crippling joy, the world around him fades away into a sea of horrible fragmented images. He loses himself completely in this unfamiliar joy…
When he opens his eyes again, returned from his bliss, there is nothing but carnage around him. His hands and face are caked in dry flaking blood. The bodies around him are too numerous to count, but it is safe to say that Antonios is the sole survivor of his village.
Chapter 13
Even though Endo and Dit-Low had helped Gullah to found the New Harlem Players, they don’t have quite the same vision with regard to expansion and recruitment. Gullah is a born leader; they, on the other hand, are born sidekicks. They may be tough as nails but they are certainly not the brains in the brain trust. Regardless, they do their best to keep the gang moving forward and making money with the absence of its founder.
Like any well-planned business, they have their own disaster and operational continuity plans that go into effect shortly after Gullah goes missing. Cash reserves to ease the concerns of their heroin connection and enough violent acts to keep members from vying for the presidency. Their growth slows even with all these planned actions and membership is actually declining. People are skipping out all over the Organization, small groups here and there gone missing or left town together in the middle of the night.