The Infects Read online

  Nero turned back to the window. Behind him, Estrada’s reflection was a dare: go ahead and fuck with me. He was the only other client not chanting.

  “Lunch, lunch, lunch!”

  “Now, now, now!”

  “Eat, eat, eat!”

  Jack Oh gunned around a slow-moving station wagon full of girls with big hair. On the wagon’s door it said Shasta County Anorex Recovery Team in delicate cursive. The clients went absolutely crazy.

  “Food, food, food!”

  “Meat, meat, meat!”

  “Tits, tits, tits!”

  War Pig stood in the back seat and howled, exhaling a rush of metallic-smelling air. Yeltsin raised up and gripped the front of his jumpsuit. “For quality ladies such as these, I not only pay drinks tab; I let them have the mouth time with my junk.”

  The seats vibrated with laughter, rocked with the beat.

  “To be honest, I’m not actually that hungry,” Mr. Bator whispered. Everyone else had refused to sit next to him since he’d been spotted the first night in the camp showers, yanking frank.

  The kid had a soapy grip! The kid had two fingers’ worth! Bible says it’s a sin to abuse your loaf! Leviticus twenty-six!

  Jack Oh gave a talk about respecting your body. Bruce Leroy did a karate demo that suggested Boner Indifference could be achieved through flexibility and personal discipline.

  “Hunger’s just a state of mind,” Nero said, thinking it sounded cool and then feeling stupid because it wasn’t true at all.

  Mr. Bator smiled and nodded, looking back out the window as the van careened across three lanes, clients instinctively leaning into the curve.

  “Slow it the eff down,” Bruce Leroy said.

  “Sorry, I don’t speak Ebonics,” Jack Oh said, speeding up.

  The exit sign loomed: Shasta County Nature Reserve.

  “Turn here.”

  Jack Oh flipped his ponytail over his shoulder and grinned. “Here?”

  “Yeah, here.”

  “You mean here? Right here?”

  “Just turn, man.”

  Jack Oh floored it into the curve. Tires smoked, marking asphalt. The van went all g-force, weightless. Everyone grabbed something, trying to ease pressure off cuffed ankles.

  “Whoa, Danica!” Tripper yelled.

  “It is called a brake?” Yeltsin said. “The pedal which is next to the gas?”

  They hit a dip, caught air, frame leaving sparks, nearly wiping out a pair of Subarus. There was a chorus of horns. An orchestra of brakes. Cursing and fist shaking. Jack Oh flipped the bird, cleared the ramp, and rolled up to a gas pump.

  Silence.

  The engine ticked and steamed.

  Clients rubbed shoulders and necks.

  Nero pried fingers from his thigh one by one.

  “Sorry,” Mr. Bator whispered, letting go.

  I had a beak like that, I’d be sorry too.

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  You’re just encouraging him. There’s no kindness amongst wolves, dog!

  “I’m not worried,” Mr. Bator said, smiling without guile, his nose leaving a shadow that dipped across one frail shoulder, a glint in his eyes that almost reminded Nero of Amanda.

  “HOUSTON, WE HAVE TOUCHDOWN,” JACK OH said, and slapped the sun visor. A can of Skoal dropped into his lap. He dipped, wiped his finger on the seat, and then looked over at Bruce Leroy.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” Bruce Leroy said, refolding the map. Across the parking lot, Fresh Bukket loomed. A giant neon chicken, oppressively yellow, spun on a pole. It wore boxing gloves, doing the rope-a-dope, the bob and weave. People carried containers and cartons and wrappers, Chixx Nuggets and Best o’ Breasts and MayoBake Tenders. In the dirt were ketchup drips and orphaned fries and half-eaten slices of Gram Spicer’s Hobo Pie.

  “Pie,” Mr. Bator said wistfully. “I miss it, and I don’t even like it.”

  “Exactly,” Nero said.

  “Let’s go,” Tripper yelled, straining against his cuff like a tube of pink roll-on. “We need to order up before the food’s all gone!”

  “Be more chill,” Yeltsin said.

  “Dude needs his meds,” Idle said. “Pronto.”

  “Counselor Bruce? Tripper’s freaking again,” Heavy D said, but Bruce Leroy had gone outside to talk to the driver of one of the cars they’d cut off, the man waving his arms, irate. Jack Oh racked the brake and got up instead, leaning against the mesh separator. He wore tight jeans and blue cowboy boots. An immaculate ponytail hung between his shoulder blades.

  “Are we having a client difficulty back here? Anything I can help solve?”

  The van, for the first time, was quiet. Eyes were averted, the sound of pumped gas amniotic beneath them.

  “No, sir.”

  “Is no problem.”

  “It’s all good.”

  Jack Oh’s eyes twinkled. “Excellent. Then let’s all just sit here quietly until —”

  Tripper stood. Everyone moaned. Heavy D tried to grab his shoulder, but Tripper wriggled away.

  “Fuck, yeah, there’s a problem,” he said.

  Jack Oh fingered the tooled knife-holder on his belt. “And what kind of problem would that be?”

  “What do you think, mangina? We’re starving.”

  The clients burst into laughter despite themselves.

  “That’s enough.”

  Tripper looked around, riding the wave. “Shit’s the opposite of enough. It’s called fuel, son. Goes in your mouth, comes out your rim? It’s eatin’ time, Busta Rhymes.”

  Jack Oh snapped open the mesh door. It hit the far wall with a molar-jarring clang. The laughter stopped. Clients leaned away from the aisle. Jack Oh clacked over and bent down in front of Tripper, their faces inches away.

  “You got a complaint now, skinhead?”

  Tripper looked around at the other clients, none of whom would meet his eyes. War Pig exhaled harshly. Nero just stared at his feet.

  That’s it, hero. Keep eyeballing those size thirteens.

  Tripper lowered his head. “I guess not.”

  “You guess not, what?”

  “I guess not, sir — Counselor sir.”

  Jack Oh nodded, slowly walking back to the gate. “Gentlemen, I believe we have all just learned our first lesson of the day.”

  When the door was almost closed, Tripper raised his fist to his mouth and fake-coughed, “Jack Off.”

  “No,” Yeltsin said.

  “Stop,” Idle said.

  Tripper coughed again, louder this time: “Chick gotta dick.”

  Jack Oh spun on one heel, lifted Tripper by the collar, and banged his head against the window.

  Some of the boys moaned.

  You gonna just sit there and watch?

  Tripper turned red, his air cut off, pulling at Jack Oh’s forearms. Mr. Bator rocked back and forth, whispering to himself.

  This time it’s him; next time it’s you.

  No one moved, holding on as the van swayed with Tripper’s kicking legs. His eyes began to roll back, neck bent oddly. The compartment was hot and airless. It smelled like burnt matches and piss.

  Do something!

  Nero finally stood. He cleared his throat and tried to sound casual. “Actually, it’s totally against the rules to touch a client. I read it in the pamphlet.”

  They all looked over in amazement, even Jack Oh, who let Tripper go.

  “Dude, you can talk?” War Pig said.

  “Two days and not a word. Suddenly it’s the Gettysburg Address,” Heavy D said.

  “All this time I have thought you were the mute,” Yeltsin said. “Or at least the unitard.”

  Nero shrugged and sat back down, his legs trembling.

  Mr. Bator leaned over and whispered, “Misdirection. Nice trick.”

  Bruce Leroy opened the door, took Jack Oh by the elbow, and pulled the gate closed. “Why don’t you go check the oil, Counselor Oh? I think these boys have had enough mentoring for one m
orning.”

  Jack Oh fished for his Skoal.

  Twist, dip, spit.

  He squinted, going for Poncho Clint.

  Outside, children laughed.

  Cars full of normals whooshed off the exit ramp.

  Respect was everything. Standing was everything. Being dissed was everything. Everything was everything.

  War Pig coughed, “Loser.”

  Heavy D coughed, “Douche.”

  Idle coughed, “Copped a feel.”

  Billy coughed, “Suck it, hippie.”

  There was a repeated slapping of five and slapping of Nero’s back as the driver’s-side door slammed hard enough to rattle pavement.

  COUNSELOR BRUCE LEROY, WEARING A WHITE headband with a Japanese sun rising in the center, took Jack Oh’s place. His real name was Marcellus Lee, but after he’d stripped down to the waist at orientation, cut like a welterweight, and got all Enter the Dragon with a karate demo, the boys dubbed him Bruce Leroy.

  “Everyone feeling all right now?”

  There was assorted grumbling.

  “The trauma over? The drama squashed?”

  There were assorted nods. Bruce Leroy pushed his thick glasses back up his nose.

  “Okay, then. Now I know back at camp we said we’d budget up for some fast food before hitting the trail.”

  The boys cheered.

  “Gimme protein,” War Pig said, kissing his freckled biceps. “These guns don’t run on salad.”

  “True enough, Warrior Pig. But that was contingent. Con-tin-jent. Meaning based upon if y’all ramped down your inner hyenas. Do any of you suppose you comported yourselves well — that’s com-port-ted, meaning acted in a reasonable manner — during this trip?”

  Idle and Billy raised their hands. Heavy D raised his hand. Mr. Bator started to, looked around, and then put it back down.

  “C’mon, now, people.”

  Dead silence.

  Bruce Leroy crossed his arms. “Can we seize this opportunity to act like men, or must we continue to lie like dogs?”

  Yeltsin sneered.

  Tripper barked.

  “I vote men,” War Pig said.

  “Men,” Nero agreed.

  “Good. Excellent. So okay, let’s reload. Did anyone in this van even halfway act like his momma raised him to today?”

  They all shook their heads no.

  “TripHop?”

  “No.”

  “Boris Y.?”

  “Yes, perhaps not so much.”

  Bruce Leroy put his hands together in the Oriental style and bowed. “Thank y’all for embracing your truth.”

  “You’re welcome,” Mr. Bator said.

  Tripper fake-coughed, “Whatta douche.”

  “Now, while the ever-professional Counselor Jack Oh finishes gassing this caravan, I am going to walk on over to Fresh Bukket. If y’all can find a way to tap some inner mellow from now until trailhead, you can eat up on such food as I lug back. Do we have a deal?”

  Heads nodded. Spines straightened. Elbows rested on laps.

  Heavy D raised his hand.

  “Heavy Duty, in the corner. Question?”

  “Yes, sir. What’re we ordering exactly?”

  Bruce Leroy scratched his sideburns. “Oh, I figure a pair of sixty-piece buckets should do it. Plus assorted sides and sauces. Cool?”

  Murmurs of assent gave the van a parliamentary feel.

  “You look unconvinced, Young D.”

  Heavy D blushed. His wrists, each ringed by an enormous yellow sweatband, rested across the shelf of his stomach.

  “It’s just that . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Personally, I prefer dark meat.”

  The van exploded with laughter. Idle and Billy punched each other’s arms.

  “Wide Load prefer dark meat!”

  “Kid an equal-opportunity gobbler!”

  Bruce Leroy chuckled. “Me too, Big D. Nothing wrong with being hungry for what you’re hungry for. Can I get an amen?”

  “Amen!”

  “Amen!”

  “Amen!”

  Jack Oh yanked open the door. “What in hell’s so funny in here?”

  Sorry, Ponytail. Not everything’s about you.

  “What isn’t funny on this fine morning?” Bruce Leroy said, stepping down and heading across the lot. “You feeling me, Counselor?”

  Sun beat through the windshield as the clients dreamed of various things to pour gravy on. Families walked by the van talking and laughing but averted their eyes when they saw the mesh windows. Dads puffed their chests while moms gripped their kids’ necks and steered them away as if being a delinquent might be catching.

  They’re right. Knucklehead is a disease.

  One mom in particular seemed on the verge of a meltdown. Eyes unfocused, she dropped four Critter Fritters in the dirt and stumbled against the pump. Her husband tried to help, but she growled and snapped at him like a dog, showing her teeth.

  Whoa, hard-core PMS. Glad I’m not hitched to that wagon.

  The husband got her strapped in, barely, kids bawling as their Family Truckster tore out of the lot.

  Estrada leaned forward and tapped Nero on the shoulder. A blue tear was tattooed just below his left eye.

  Watch that kid. He’s got a face like a mustard stain.

  Nero gulped. “What?”

  Estrada pointed with his chin. “Incoming.”

  Ten seconds later, another Econoline eased into the station and parked on the far side of the pump.

  Close enough to touch.

  Or at least to want to.

  It was the second batch of IT clients.

  In all-pink jumpsuits.

  The girls’ group.

  On the side of their van, beneath INWARD TREK, was the company motto, We’re All in This Together.

  “I so want to be all in that,” Estrada whispered. “Together. Separate. Whatever.”

  The other van began to rock with commotion as various lips, bangs, and ponytails were framed in the windows, as bra straps and bare shoulders dipped beneath pink uniforms.

  From sheer boredom to pajama party in the span of ten seconds.

  The girls were tall, short, hot, not. At least two of them made Jayna Layne look like a walking meat loaf.

  “That one’s almost worth getting arraigned for,” Estrada whispered. Nero followed his eyes to a stately blonde sitting alone in the back, even though the others were packed three to a seat. Her name tag said SWANN. She seemed to be the only one wearing wrist cuffs.

  Across the aisle, two girls sang into a hairbrush mic. Another danced one-footed, her cuff bouncing to the beat. Then a cornrowed girl with the name tag RAEKWON grabbed the mic and pretended to deep-throat it.

  “Oooooooh!” the other girls yelled at once, pushing and shoving.

  Normally, fantastic.

  But Nero had other concerns.

  For instance, the hard-looking girl with dark purple hair. Who was totally giving him the eyeball.

  “Sorta cute,” Estrada whispered. “I guess.”

  Cheech is right. To guess.

  Nero leaned against the glass and was just able read the girl’s name tag: JOANJET. Her hair was rubber-banded into a severe topknot, like a purple fountain you wouldn’t want to toss coins into.

  That’s one wish that’s not coming true.

  She had a thin face that was so pale it seemed covered in powder. There was a tattoo under her chin. It flared across her neck in both directions, a pair of unfurled wings.

  You’re staring. Girls totally love that.

  “I take the blonde; you take purple,” Estrada said. “We go on a double date.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You scared?”

  “Yes.”

  Joanjet leaned over and whispered something to the girl on the seat next to her.

  Not a chance.

  Whose face was suddenly pressed against the window.

  Impossible.

  A girl wi
th white hair tucked behind her ears; it was cut shorter now and pulled into a tight bob. She wore no makeup, hadn’t styled her jumpsuit by ripping off the sleeves or putting the collar up like the other girls.

  Doesn’t follow the crowd. Marches to a different drummer. Nice.

  Yeah, she was nice.

  Just like she was in the hallway at school or shooting the shit while waiting for the chicken gates to open.

  Because that girl was Petal Gazes.

  What, you know her?

  Not even pretending to be surprised, Petal glanced at Nero, and then handed something to Joanjet.

  “It’s a pencil,” Estrada said, too loudly. It woke up the other boys, who finally noticed the van.

  “Holy shit. Girls!”

  “Move now, please. Is very important that I see.”

  They stretched as far as their ankle cuffs would allow, War Pig clearing space with his elbows.

  “Oh, man, it’s like Chained Heat.”

  “I so, so need to get laid.”

  “Whatever, Fisty. You so, so are still the virgin.”

  They could all see a piece of paper in Joanjet’s lap.

  “Yo, Nero, it’s a love note!”

  “Way to pimp, pimp.”

  “Is it her phone number?” Heavy D asked.

  “Yes, it is, you muncher of ass,” Yeltsin said. “She is giving Nero her phone number. For the cell phone she does not have. So he can call her back. On the cell phone he does not have.”

  “Quiet,” War Pig said. “Here it comes.”

  Joanjet reached over and pressed the paper against the window with her middle finger.

  They all squinted, trying to make it out.

  It wasn’t a love note.

  It wasn’t a phone number.

  It was a drawing.

  A pretty good one, actually, of Nero’s face. The dark hair and eyes and aquiline nose that had prompted his nickname to begin with, all nicely rendered. His deadpan expression. The thin stubble on his chin and upper lip.

  Then, underneath the drawing, it said, in big block letters: EAT ME.

  “You got dogged, dog!” Tripper said.

  “Sorry, man,” War Pig said. “Brutal.”

  Idle and Billy laughed, kicking the seat as Bruce Leroy came back across the lot, holding Fresh Bukket bags. Petal leaned around Joanjet and pressed her face against the window.

  Her lips parted, about to say something.