The Infects Page 3

  “Petal? Do you want to go out? Or whatever?”

  “Out where?”

  He couldn’t tell if she was joking.

  “Um? Outside? For a cigarette?”

  “You don’t smoke,” she said, letting go of his hand. “Neither do I.”

  The bell rang again.

  He could smell skin.

  His own.

  Coated with nervous sweat and Rebozzo paste.

  “Yeah, no, of course. I was just —”

  “Just what?”

  “Nothing.”

  Was it possible for one person to be any more of a stone-cold idiot?

  Nick found out when Petal turned and walked away.

  REAL SLEEP WAS IMPOSSIBLE.

  Reel sleep was inevitable.

  He lay there, on a sheetless mattress, waiting for it to come.

  Beyond exhausted.

  Begging to fall into a dark, soundless box.

  For at least a couple of hours.

  But his mind refused.

  Because as soon as Nick closed his eyes, he was headlong into seriously badass dreams, Technicolor mayhem with a speed-metal sound track.

  In the deep hours, running.

  And being chased.

  Running and being caught.

  Caught and being bitten.

  Bitten and then eaten.

  Molars, throat, stomach.

  Nick nuggets.

  Nick breaded.

  Nick curled up in a bath of golden fry oil.

  The chickens were getting to him. The no sleep was getting to him. The nosebleeds were getting to him. The getting to him was getting to him.

  He felt sick as a dog, sick and tired, sick of it all.

  But calling in was out.

  At least for the Blue Room’s head butcher.

  Who’d already spent Win Fuld’s hundred-dollar bill on Mutilhate downloads. And then given the cigar to Amanda, who’d walked around with it clenched in her teeth all day like a riverboat gambler, whispering, “Aces and eights? Nick? The dead man’s hand? Aces, Nick? Eights?”

  So he chewed a dozen aspirin and swallowed half a grapefruit instead, forcing himself to get dressed and into the Celica.

  Time to man up.

  Cowboy up.

  Suck it up, marine.

  Get low.

  Get mean.

  Unclench the heart.

  Unpucker the asshole.

  Unsheathe the knife.

  And put a serious blade to them yardbirds.

  It was only an hour into his shift, but it felt like five. Like a hundred and five. A lone rat watched from the bleacher seats as Rebozzo Fryers cruised by on the belt. One after another. Never slowing. Never stopping. A procession of soldiers marching off to sacrifice themselves in honey-mustard salvos.

  Chop, slit, chop.

  Every other bird, Nick leaned over to check his reflection in the greasy chrome of the assembly machine.

  Snip, gut, snip.

  His eyes were yellow slits, skin doughy and practically gray.

  Cut, slice, cut.

  He jabbed at the next chicken.

  Which slipped out of his hand as if it had suddenly taken flight.

  And then watched in slow motion as a ninety-weight, pure cold-forged, heavy industrial deboning knife went right through the center of his palm.

  Hey. Wow. Ouch.

  Vlad the Impaler.

  He stared at the geyser of blood as if it were a cheesy special effect, a fountain of red dye and Karo Syrup.

  Except this was real.

  And very, very wet.

  Nick gripped the rubber handle, giddy with pain. It was so ridiculous, he almost wanted to laugh. Instead, he took a deep breath and began to slide the blade back out. It didn’t want to come. He had to wiggle the hilt, every slow inch an Old Testament curse. When the tip finally came free, it let loose a sigh, a sound of regret and relief.

  Pop.

  Then blood began to flow in earnest. It gurgled between the tear of sterile rubber and residue of poultry chum, down his arm, and onto the backs of the Rebozzo Fryers he’d already finished. The little birds didn’t seem to mind, posed and on the flex, heading toward the packaging machine a slick and shiny red.

  Like postmodern art.

  Pollock spatter.

  Or a really bad horror movie.

  Poultrygeist.

  The Fowling.

  Nick flung the knife, which clanged across the pristine floor, leaving delicate smears of red. It was hard to think, already down a pint of O negative, platelets jumping ship with abandon.

  He was supposed to hit the emergency stop. That’s what it said in all the safety protocols. But then the alarm would go off. Half the line would come running. They’d see his hand, send him home, whisper with disbelief. It would be a story told around the gate, an instant legend, shift after shift after shift.

  Screw that.

  When Nick was little, the Dude sometimes called him Pussy One. Mom would laugh and say, “Oh, leave him alone,” but the Dude kept at it, mostly since Nick was sort of a pussy, crying while Amanda never did, whining when Amanda never did, demanding attention in a way that Amanda would never deign to.

  No way he could crawl home now and tell the Dude why.

  “Yeah, um, Pussy One hurt his finger.”

  Or crawl across the cutting floor and tell Win Fuld why.

  “Yeah, um, Pussy One’s not up to the job after all.”

  Nick tore fabric from his lab coat and wrapped it around the wound, then slid a new glove over it.

  The old one fell, wet and red, on top of a chicken breast.

  Unclean.

  Unhygienic.

  Nick taint.

  But he let it go, because more fryers were booming down the line, sliding through his blood. And he could hear the first delivery truck already backing up to the dock.

  Beep beep beep.

  At least one tainted load was going to get packaged and make it out of the facility.

  Maybe more.

  He needed time to catch up.

  Nick reached down and flipped the first in a row of huge steel latches that anchored his workstation, the massive springs pinging and expanding, then redirected the assembly belt with his thigh. There was a groan, resistance, the tearing of virgin metal. He pushed again, harder, and the conduit finally separated.

  A lone Rebozzo Fryer rolled up between the two belts. It hung on for a second, as if trying to decide.

  And then fell wetly to the cement floor.

  Splat.

  A few more, heartened by the first, went over the edge. Each landed with an oddly human sound.

  Splat. Splat.

  As long as they weren’t making it through the chute whole.

  Splat. Splat. Splat.

  They actually looked pretty comfy down on the cement, sort of like a yoga class stretching.

  Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.

  Except Petal was in packaging.

  Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.

  When the fryers stopped coming through, she’d have to report it.

  Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.

  Or cover for him.

  Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.

  Which would be a big mistake.

  Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.

  He had to warn her somehow.

  Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.

  Send a message.

  Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.

  Like maybe a smoke signal. Or a papyrus scroll.

  Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat. Splat.

  But first he needed to close his eyes and rest. Just for a second. After that, Pussy One would get his shit together and totally figure out what to do.

  THE INWARD TREK VAN WAS HOT, PACKED, and rowdy.

  It roared down the highway, black and sleek.

&n
bsp; On the side was a logo, a fist with a pine tree growing out of it.

  On the hood was a warning: DO NOT APPROACH VAN.

  In the front row, against the mesh window, sat Nero Sole.

  He still had soul, but was Nick no longer.

  As part of the Inward Trek privacy agreement, every client had been assigned a mandatory “Trek Handle” by the counselors at intake, like it or lump it. At first Nick lumped Nero, thinking he sounded like a boy-band dancer, then decided he didn’t give a shit. In the end a name was just another dog collar — an easier way for people to get your attention before telling you what to do.

  Nick was the past. Nick was prologue. Nick was some kid who couldn’t handle the stick and got sent down to the minors.

  The great thing about being a convict was that you got to write your own story.

  Act cool; you’re cool. Act tough; you’re tough.

  At least until someone called you on it.

  Nero was only what Nero proved himself to be.

  Preferably Steve McQueen, but with a better haircut.

  The highway zoomed by regardless.

  Counselor Jack Oh sat at the wheel. Counselor Bruce Leroy rode shotgun.

  Behind them were nine clients on lockdown, names sewn over the hearts of their orange jumpsuits:

  1. Nero: A Nick by any other name would smell just as sweet. Rumored Crime: Silent on the matter.

  2. Tripper: Squat and manic, a capsule of human Adderall, shaved head, baby face, sleeved in tats, missing his two front teeth. Rumored Crime: Repeated steel toe to loser rib.

  3. War Pig: All pecs and lats and kinky red hair. Shotgun-freckled bulk. Doesn’t say much; doesn’t have to. Rumored Crime: Strictly smash and grab, laptops and old-lady purses.

  4. Yeltsin: Knife games and card tricks. Purple lips and black teeth. Chechen exchange student. Stubble and a cigarette. Rumored Crime: Ukrainian mafia.

  5. and 6. Idle and Billy: Identical twins. Fake tans, knobby chins, peroxide bangs gelled straight up. Tennis and cashmere gone wrong. Seven grand in chrome braces between them. Rumored Crime: It’s not a rumor.

  7. Mr. Bator: Wet eyes, skinny frame, honker so big it looks glued on. Rumored Crime: Who cares?

  8. Heavy D: Guess a weight, pick a chin. So much D he requires his own row. Writes code faster than breathing. Rocks sweatbands, round glasses, and a yellow perm. Rumored Crime: Hacked into World Bank computers, tried to sell files to Pakistan.

  9. Estrada: Slicked back and black; face cruel and implacable; either Mexican or the mailman was; dead eyed like an Aztec carving. Rumored Crime: Offed a rival as part of gang initiation.

  After two days’ orientation in base camp just north of San Francisco, they’d been rousted from their cots in the dark —“Hands off your dicks, gentlemen. It’s go time!”— and allotted ten minutes to piss, brush, cram half a power bar, and zip into orange jumpsuits before splitting at dawn.

  The van made steady progress up the I-5 corridor before beginning the slow curl through the remote Sierra Nevada foothills. Soon Nero (Nick) and the rest of the clients (convicts) and counselors (hacks) would be unloading (taking a final civilized shit) before the fifty-mile endurance hike (forced march) that kicked off (nothing compared to what’s coming) the program (punishment).

  Scrub pine and asphalt sped by at eighty per. The mile markers blurred and paled in the sun. Nero, hypnotized, considered leaning back and kicking out the window. Not because he figured it would lead to a Great Escape–style escape. Or even that his sneaker had half a chance of breaking the reinforced glass. It just seemed like the contact would feel good.

  Yeah, and it’s been a while since anything’s felt good, hasn’t it?

  Also, it might distract him from the voice.

  Huh? What voice?

  The one that started two weeks ago.

  Has it really been that long?

  The one that never stopped, never took a breath, deep and raspy and stupid, banging around inside Nero’s head like a wasp.

  Hey, that’s not nice.

  And, worst of all, the voice sounded almost exactly like the Rock.

  Who?

  Former pro wrestler? B-movie action turd? Couldn’t act his way out of a bag of steroids?

  I still wrestle, okay? Acting is just a good way to meet the ladies. And I never took steroids. At all. Not even a little. So, yeah, pretty much none.

  Nero rubbed his palm. It was red and sore and raw. The stitches, sixty-two to close what the deboning knife had only begun to open, itched.

  Bet that really hurt.

  “Yeah, it really did.”

  Maybe you should stick to spoons from now on, huh?

  “Hilarious.”

  Listen, kid, here’s what you do. Stand up and punch the biggest guy in the van. Then they’ll treat you with respect.

  “I don’t want their respect.”

  Well, you gotta make a move soon or you’ll end up being someone’s wife.

  “What does that even mean?”

  It means you’re talking to yourself, genius.

  Nero looked around. Some of the other clients were staring, shaking their heads. He hunched down and pushed a thumbnail between his stitches, releasing a jolt of pain that flashed pure black and then bright yellow, blotting everything else out.

  Better the hurt than the voice, better the pain than the insane.

  Even if it was only temporary.

  Nero Sole, Product of His Crazy Father’s Crazy Loins.

  * * *

  The noise in the van reached a frenzy.

  “Will you all just shut it the hell up a second?” Counselor Jack Oh yelled, yanking the wheel as he gunned around another Prius.

  None of the clients paid attention.

  Jack Oh rattled the mesh separator. “Hey! Delinquents!”

  None of the clients paid attention.

  “Relax,” Bruce Leroy said, his Afro slung low over thick glasses. A map was open across the dash. “Just keep an eye peeled for the next exit.”

  The next exit meant a rest stop. A rest stop meant food. Food meant people. People meant something to make fun of. Something to make fun of meant being distracted from hunger. Hunger meant food. Food meant a rest stop. A rest stop meant the next exit.

  “About time!” Tripper yelled, knocking his head against the window in threes. “It’s lunchtime, baby!”

  The other clients cheered, picking up the beat.

  “Lunch, lunch, lunch!”

  “Now, now, now!”

  “Eat, eat, eat!”

  Nero did not stomp. Or chant. Power bars and juice boxes were getting old, but antagonizing the counselors never seemed to result in anything but antagonized counselors.

  That’s right, Nicky: be a good boy. Good boys always come out on top.

  Not in this case. This case being Rebozzo AviraCulture v. One Astonishingly Stupid Teenager, a judicial proceeding in which Nick went all in and got called holding seven-deuce, standing there with a bloody hand while half that day’s production rumbled across the floor like a screen pass to the fullback. The morning shift called the foreman. Who called the shop steward. Who called Win Fuld. Who called the cops. Nick was fired on the spot. Then stuffed into the back of a cruiser: “Watch your head. You have the right to remain a moron. Anything you say can and will be laughed at.”

  Charges were brought. The Dude just shook his head. Nick’s court-appointed suit yawned his way through preliminary motions while playing World of Orkcraft on his iPhone.

  Jayna Layne testified (hot, sweaty).

  Jett Ballou testified (bored, angry).

  Win Fuld testified (hairless, lipless).

  Amanda sat in the back row of the courtroom, whispering: “Rebozzo Fryer, Nick? Liar? Rebozzo Fryer is a liar?”

  Nick was called to the stand. His mind immediately went blank, as if the chicken knife had reached into him and pulled something important back out with it. Molecules of inaction coursed through his bloodstream, the entire proceeding l
ike a fever dream. A high that wasn’t high. The bitter and grainy taste of a pure and deep low. Saddled with enough junk Dude code to permanently crash the servers.

  Meanwhile, the prosecutor railed away. Gross negligence. Property crime. Unnecessary bleeding. Vandalism. Willful ignorance. Destruction of fifty thousand dollars worth of poultry. Possible collusion with animal-rights activists. Next step: eco-terrorism. Judge Smails pronounced the sentence: pay full reparations by five o’clock today or do three months in juvie camp.

  “Pay?” the Dude said. “Today?”

  “Juvie?” Amanda said. “Camp?”

  “Inward Trek provides rugged problem solving,” the judge explained. “Clients learn the value of restorative exhaustion while scaling up the rock of justice and down the face of teamwork.”

  The Dude lit a Cherokee Spirit. The bailiff tossed him from the courtroom.

  One minute Nick’s biggest problem was Axl postponing Chinese Democracy; the next it was a scene from Shawshank, ankle chained in a van with a pack of deviants and fist fuckers, roaring down the highway, half wishing the thing would blow a radial, roll over, and explode.

  Except that would mean he’d left Amanda behind for good.

  Could he live with that?

  Could he die with that?

  Oh, stop being so dramatic. You’ll be out in ninety days.

  Actually, eighty-eight. But who’s counting?

  “YO, NERO!” IDLE SAID, POKING HIS SPIKY blond hair into the aisle. “What you dreamin’ about, son?”

  “Yeah,” Billy hissed through his braces. “Whoever she is, I wanna break off a piece of that action too.”

  Nero slid his thumbnail from the gash that bisected his palm, blood already dry and almost purple.

  He’d passed out.

  And wanted immediately to pass out again.

  “What,” Idle said, “you too cool to answer me?”

  Nero eyed the peroxide brothers, perched on their seat like a doubles pair up forty–love in the final set.

  They’re cat torturers, you know.

  It was true. There’d been an article in the paper, whole neighborhoods missing various Fluffys and Tabbys and Mr. Pickles, people blaming a rabid coyote until they’d found the battle arena the brothers had built in a thicket under the bridge. Headline: “Deranged Prep Twins Build Kitty Octagon, Stage Feline Mayhem!” Followed by “Peroxide Lecters Plead Guilty in Exchange for Reduced Sentence!”