Fiend (10 page)

Maybe I’m telling her I love her.

Maybe I’m kissing her neck.

KK backs away and points to Jared on the couch. He looks horrible, pale and sick, girl-jean skinny, his black hair shielding half of his face.

I tell KK we need to go.

Help me get him to the car, she says.

Typewriter steps into the apartment. He’s jamming shells into his shotgun. He’s telling me we need to go, he can hear more coming.

I grab KK’s wrist. I could wrap my fingers around it twice. She must have been shooting shit for a goodly while.

Now, let’s go.

Jared.

We can’t. They’re coming.

I yell to Typewriter to guard the door.

KK’s nothing but snot and shaking bangs. I tell her we need to go right fucking now.

Help me get Jared into—

He’s turning. He’s done, baby. He’s fucking turning.

Two more, Typewriter yells.

Three shots fill the efficiency.

I yank on KK’s wrist.

Stop, she yells.

I stare at KK. Her face is the same as it was when she told me that she was finished, that she couldn’t stand by and watch me kill myself. I’m replaying that morning, even though I don’t want to. KK stood at the end of our couch in nothing but a pair of kitten-print panties and a baby blue tank top. I’d skipped bed that night, told her I couldn’t sleep, and spent the early-dawn hours smoking speed, not even getting high, just right, just adjusted. She told me she couldn’t do it anymore. That she was leaving. Going back to treatment. I laughed. I told her she couldn’t quit. She’d gotten on her knees then and rested her face on the side of our couch cushion, like the simple act of keeping her head upright was too draining. She begged me. She said, Chase, I’m on my fucking knees begging you to come with me, to get clean. We can do this. We have to do this. And I sat there with my stupid stem in my hand and a blister on my lip from the hot glass, a dick rubbed raw, and a life I’d once again suffocated the fuck out of. I sat there
staring at the only person I’d ever really loved, and told her I wouldn’t stop using.

I know now, standing in her apartment, that it’s the same thing. I either choose the path I always do, the one that leads me to being alone wanting to straight-up kill myself, or the one where I do something for somebody else.

I go to the couch and drape one of Jared’s lanky arms over my neck. He’s got a sloppy track mark from his greedy haste to get high. He can barely stand. KK is at his other side, telling him things like
you can do this, come on, baby, use your feet
. Typewriter fires another shot into the hallway.

Clear? I yell.

Go, go, he says.

He leads the way. Jared’s head keeps smacking into my ear. It hurts. We take the stairs as fast as we can. I hear giggles, then a gunshot, then silence. I want to drop Jared and pretend it was an accident. We keep going. We’re on the first floor and then at the door and there’s a twenty-something guy guarding the way and Type flips his gun around and swings the butt at the guy’s face. It cracks. He giggles. He takes a swipe at Typewriter and I maneuver Buster one-handed and fire from the hip. The Chuck slumps against the wall. Then we’re outside and now they seem to be coming from every direction. I’m practically carrying all of Jared and running as hard as I can, knowing I’m a good person, a decent person, a person at least trying to do something differently than I have for the previous twenty-five years.

KK opens the back door.

I throw Jared in. Jump in myself.

Type starts the car and fists crash on the glass as we pull away, and we’re driving, bodies visible, thud, then not.

I’ve made KK climb up to the front seat next to Type. She protested, saying that Jared needs her. I’ve told her that on the off chance he does change, I don’t want her back there, that I can take care of it.

We’ve been driving for an hour and we’ve exhausted the range of conversation. KK’s given me lots of one-word answers. Type plays techno. We’ll need gas before we make it back to the Albino’s. I sit in the tiny backseat staring at Jared. The dude’s about to die, that much is certain. He licks his lips and there’s no moisture there, just thick spittle, already having moved past foam, now on to stages of crust. He’s nothing but shivers. I wrap him in the bloody spare clothes we’d jammed into a garbage bag at my apartment. KK breaks her silence with a sudden outburst: He’s going to die. I wonder if this isn’t all of our fates once we get farther north. The Albino isn’t too fond of strangers.

I keep trying to figure out what happened with KK and her sobriety. I drop hints, say things like
maybe he’s got a collapsed vein
or
maybe your batch wasn’t good
. These are met by silence or her telling me to stop. As good as it is to see KK, she’s being kind of a bitch. She’s spoken all of ten words to me, was pretty light on the thank-yous, and doesn’t seem
to give two fucks about Typewriter. I’m staring at the back of her neck. I can see the tail end of what must be a new tattoo. It looks like writing, numbers maybe. I move the ends of her blond hair out of the way. KK jerks forward.

What the fuck, Chase?

Jesus, just seeing the tattoo.

KK covers her neck with her hand.

Sorry, I say.

Fine.

We listen to synthesizer and bass and Jared’s soft groans.

It’s fucking stupid, anyway, KK says.

This is good. She’s talking. I say, What is?

The tattoo.

What is it?

A date I thought meant something.

Then I understand she’d put in her sobriety date, stamped the shit right onto her neck. And I get it, I do. The need to make something impermanent permanent. To tell yourself that this time it’s for real. That you are done. Forever. And what better way to mark that decision, the finality of it, than scar it onto your body? I understand it’s one more block between you and the next shot. But I also understand the perverse pleasure of relapsing with this permanent marker there to remind you that you’re a piece of shit, always will be, that this is what you deserve, addiction, sucking dick and robbing and spreading your sickness to teenagers with too much money.

I know the date tattooed on her neck. The day after she left our apartment and checked herself into rehab.

And then I’m looking at Jared. I move the sweatshirt I’ve
draped over his body. He barely registers this with a fluttering of his eyes. I look at his arm. He’s got one vein beat to shit, bruised an inch in either direction of his injection site. A vein like this must have been at least a couple months of using. And I’m looking between his arm and KK’s neck and Typewriter who’s thumping the dash to the beat and then I think about seeing Tibbs walking around West Seventh the other morning and about the trucker Travis and about the Albino—all of us speed freaks, all of us the dregs of fucking society—and how we’d joked about us being the ones who’d survived, but it’s
true
. Everyone I know who shoots scante is okay. All of us. We’re the only ones who haven’t turned into the walking dead. I wonder if there’s something in the drug, some chemical that counteracts whatever the fuck caused the mass epidemic. This makes about as much sense as the rest of my life. I put my index and middle fingers to Jared’s wrist. He’s rocking a downbeat sober pulse. Then it hits me—the reason he’s dying is that he needs more. His body is succumbing to whatever the fuck is in the air. He needs shit. I’m about to tell this to Typewriter and KK but I stop. I know under no circumstance will she see my logic of injecting our last rig into her dying boyfriend’s arm.

I reach forward to the middle console and pretend to be digging around for a lighter. I palm the rig. I light a cigarette to cover my tracks. Then I move the coat over Jared’s hand and my lap. I feel the back of his hand for his middle knuckle. From there, I press my finger along his skin until it hits the largest vein. I slip the cap off the needle and pinch the vein and am pretty sure I hit it and I tell myself I’m doing the right
thing and saving his life and KK moves her hand off the back of her neck. I was right, the date is the first day of my life without her.

This breaks my heart even though I know it shouldn’t.

She’d just wanted a better life. One that kept her out of psych wards and strange men’s beds. But I can’t help but take it personally.

Jared’s eyes are smog. I think about the one second methamphetamines take to travel the length of a vein and hit the heart and then the brain. How long will it take to counteract the pathogen causing the epidemic? Did I just kill this motherfucker? He’s still licking his lips, still trying to ease the pain of swallowing. I imagine Hoover Dam–sized floodgates opening and dopamine spilling out. Norepinephrine. Serotonin. Maybe whatever the fuck has almost caused the extinction of the species, maybe it binds to these sites. Maybe we meth addicts are immune because every spare receptor site is clogged the fuck up with extra neurotransmitters. Jared’s leg starts to twitch. Then it starts to bounce. I don’t want KK to turn around and see her man looking like an epileptic. I smoke my cigarette. I’ll feel bad if I have just killed Jared but then I tell myself he was gone anyway. It was a last-ditch effort, maybe even heroic, and KK will never have to know. Then I think about starting the rest of our lives under this weight—my silent burden of having killed off the competition.

Water, Jared says.

This is the first word he’s spoken. KK doesn’t hear. He says it again. I look around for something. All I can find is a two liter of Mountain Dew. It’s got to be better than nothing.
I unscrew the cap. It doesn’t fizz, not even a little bit. I lean over and splash some into his mouth. He’s able to swallow.

What the fuck are you—

Baby, Jared says. He reaches a sickly hand in her direction. It’s the same one I just blasted full of dope. There’s a pin drop of blood on its back. KK screams, clasps his hand, crying, saying, You’re okay, you’re okay, and she’s climbing to the back and her flat ass is in my face and then she’s sitting in my lap, lavishing her affection on another man.

Typewriter holds his pistol. He asks if he’s turned.

No, I say. He’s all good.

Jared’s coming back. His leg twitches and he’s able to mutter simple phrases. Mostly he says, I’m so thirsty.

KK kisses his eyes. His nose. She even kisses his come-crusted mouth and I know right then, it’s serious, them, their love. I remind myself that this was all I had wanted. Simply for her to be safe. I’d told myself and God and my father and Typewriter this and I’d gotten my wish.

I tap KK on the side, tell her I’ll slide up front. It’s awkward and I might have a chub and I’m only a little careful that it doesn’t brush against her hand.

It doesn’t take long for Jared to become more coherent. He asks questions about what happened and if it was real, the death, the reanimated. KK fills him in. Then he sees me and I tell him what’s up. I feel like Einstein. I’ve figured out our limiting variable. Nobel Prizes should be coming my way. I’m Mother Teresa and Gandhi. So fucking selfless, saving the guy who fucks the love of my life. I hear KK tell Jared that his heart is racing.

That’s because he’s spun, I say.

Typewriter laughs.

Jesus, can you just stop with that. Like I know I fucked up, KK says.

I figure I have to share my knowledge. It’s life or death. I say, No, I’m serious, your boy’s spun.

Feel like it, Jared says.

KK asks what he means. She touches his forehead.

I gave him a booster.

You stupid fuck, KK says. She hits the back of my head. Typewriter continues laughing, tapping the steering wheel.

I turn toward Jared and KK. I say, Listen, it was a gamble, but I realized that all of us have been using. I mean like every one of us still alive is on shit.

So fucking selfish, KK says.

So I gave him a hit, and he’s fine now. How the fuck does that make me selfish?

Because you could have killed him.

He was about to die anyway.

Can’t believe—

And it worked, right? I fucking saved him. He’s talking, sitting upright. Am I right, Jared?

Jared puts his arm around KK. He whispers something. Then he looks at me and I hate his long stupid face. He says, Thank you.

Are you serious? KK says.

He saved my life. What the hell more do you want from him?

Bro, Typewriter says, you realize what this means?

I do, but I don’t say anything.

He says, We’re in this shit for life.

The Albino sits Indian-style on the one couch in his cabin. He’s only wearing underwear. He looks like one of the Chucks. He’s let us in, and now just stares at us like we’re the stupidest motherfuckers he’s ever seen. I’m telling him that it’s better, having more people, safety in numbers, that we can fortify his compound, that everyone can be of use, that we need to pull together.

He clears his throat. He points to KK. He says, That a boy or girl?

It’s kind of funny so I laugh. He’s taking it better than I would have guessed. His skin is Christmas morning snow.

This is KK, I say.

She steps forward.

The Albino makes no move to shake her hand.

And this is Jared, I say.

Jared says hello.

The Albino sits like a sage, some gatekeeper, some protector of this shitty life we’re trying to build. He finally says, The blond thing can stay, but fuck horse face.

I’m liking where this is headed.

KK sniffles.

I toss the duffle bag of Sudafed and other pills on the floor. I say, We all stay.

What we got here?

The Albino gets up. His dick swings a little in his underwear. He rifles through the bag, his face going from solemn to ecstatic as he pulls out box after box of ingredients.

You’s done good, Crooked Cock. Done real good.

So they can stay? All of us?

Not promising shit.

For now, though?

For now, need to get cookin’. I’m not stopping for shit.

Fuck yeah, Type says.

Okay, so, what about us? What do you need us to do?