The Product Line (Book 1): Product (6 page)

Gideon interrupts him.

--I take it you are not a religious man.

--I seen enough hardship in my life to doubt that there is a God, or if there is one, to at least be confident that he’s an asshole.

Gideon smiles, somewhat pleased with Ernie’s candid response.

--I believe that you are smart enough to know that you should be dead by now, that your wound should have killed you in that alleyway.

Ernie nods.

--Ernie, here are the facts. You have been infected with a particularly nasty virus. I do not know where or how you came in contact with it, as I did not see any recent evidence of an attack on you, but I can tell you that it was recent. This infection, this sickness, it will kill you unless it is treated. Also it will, well… it will become contagious if it is not treated and you could hurt a great many more people. There is no cure, there will never be a cure, there is only treatment.

--This don’t look like a hospital.

--Ha. No, it is not a hospital. It is more of a… a… treatment center, let’s say.

--OK.

Gideon leans closer to Ernie.

--The choice, Ernie, is whether you want to receive treatment or not.

Ernie thinks of Marie, of how she has been looking for him, always looking for him. Thinks of his youthful appearance and how his tooth nubs have grown into teeth and filled the gaps where his teeth had fallen out.

--Ernie, I will say this. Treatment comes at a price.

--I don’t have any money or nothing.

--My payment will come in the form of time. You will work for me from now until the day you die. The work will be hard, at times it will be more than difficult, it will be painful.

No matter how Ernie runs the numbers in his head it still seems like a pretty sweet deal. He should be dead, he isn’t. He should look like a week-old shit sandwich, but instead he doesn’t look bad. Hell, he looks good.

--OK. Yeah. Been a while since I held down a real nine-to-five, but… OK. Sure.

Gideon lets out a laugh.

--Very well. Ernie, welcome to the family.

Gideon slides the end of the needle into Ernie’s forearm. What should be a painless point of pressure stings like a knife. Ernie moves back instinctually and Gideon‘s grip becomes a vice. Gideon pulls back on the plunger just a little bit to ensure he’s found the vein and then slowly pushes the contents of the syringe into Ernie’s bloodstream.

Ernie’s arm is immediately on fire, a blissful inferno of heat that radiates out from his arm to every inch of his body. The room feels as if glowing satin has rolled down the walls around him, shimmering with love and light, wrapping around him with the embrace of a long-lost lover.

It’s as if every cell in his body is alive with joy. It’s Christmas and first love, and sex and pride, it’s everything turned into this perfect moment, this perfect warmth. Were he a religious man, he would call this feeling heaven.

He wants it to continue forever.

Ernie isn’t proud of it, in fact there’s little in his life he’s proud of, but during the war, when he had lost the hope that he would ever return, he became familiar with this warm feeling, this numb blanket. It’s an embrace that only opiates can provide. He’s never mainlined heroin: skin popped, and snorted, even smoked some opium a few times, but the feeling is so similar.

He remembers that with any opiate he should feel this way for a while. But no matter how badly he wants the feeling to stay with him, it starts to fade as quickly as it came on. The glowing love drips out of him, pulling back through his fingers and toes.

The golden shimmer from the walls fades away and he returns from his bliss, feeling healthier and more alive than ever in his life.

--What the fuck was that?

--Your treatment. It is a rush.

--You ain’t kidding.

Ernie’s body is buzzing. There is a whooshing sound in Ernie’s ears. His body feels clean somehow, perhaps for the first time in forever. Even if Gideon says he is dying, he has never felt so alive. So hearty and connected. With each breath Ernie’s senses become more and more acute, his muscles pumping with energy and heat. He can hear the distant whooshing sound transform into a more rhythmic pumping. At first he thinks it is some after-effect of the “treatment,” that this is a hallucination or some residual trip, but with each passing moment he becomes more and more aware of the world around him. The thumping, the rhythm becomes louder and louder, clearer and clearer until Ernie recognizes what it is. It’s not a pipe or nearby pump, it’s no outdoor construction equipment or acid flashback. No, it’s very clear. Very distinct. It’s the competing sound of Ernie’s and Gideon’s heartbeats.

--Jesus. I can hear our hearts.

Gideon nods.

--Yes. There is a lot you will have to learn.

There is a sharp sting in Ernie’s head as the sound of the two heartbeats begin to expand ever further, like the curtains being lifted on a symphony of beating hearts, a percussive distant pounding.

--So, perhaps we should begin at the beginning. I should warn you it is going to be a long night of firsts for you, Ernie.

Ernie lies back in the bed, certain that he should have listened more to the story Gideon told him, or at the very least certain that there is more going on than just some sort of flu or illness or whatever.

--Ernie, I maintain a very simple business of treatment. I provide the treatment you just received to others with the same condition. Our… product. I use runners, people who are similarly afflicted, to get treatment to the people who need it.

Gideon hovers over Ernie as he digests the truths of his circumstances.

--Runner? Product? You’re a drug dealer. All this fancy talk and wild Bible stories and stuff and you’re just a drug dealer.

Gideon leans back in his seat, presses on his thighs to stand up.

--I am not a drug dealer. You and I are not the only ones in this city who are sick.

--Look, no disrespect, but I don’t feel too sick. I feel pretty great, really, so I am not exactly buying this whole “I am sick” thing.

--I imagined you might feel that way.

Gideon puts his hand to his chin, contemplating his next words with great caution.

--I was hoping to avoid using inaccurate vernacular, but here it is. Ernie, your illness requires that you consume human blood. It requires that you feed it regularly. Without a constant and steady supply of human blood, you will become a monster.

--Ha, so… what? I’m a fucking vampire? Come on.

As the questioning words leave his mouth, his mind has already betrayed them. Yes, of course he is a vampire. His clear and recently tuned-up mind begins to connect all the dots. He
is
sick. His face. The sun. His appearance. It makes perfect sense even though it is many-fold beyond the realm of the believable.

Gideon continues to explain the circumstance to Ernie in much greater detail. He treads lightly around terms like “vampire” and “feeding.” He explains that there are two conflicting ideological views. Most realize that their condition is brought about by the Virus, and that it is not something holy or divine. They refer to each other as sick or infected—rarely using the stigmatic “vampire” moniker. However, there are some in the city who are much older and carry a torch for the religious and Gothic views. They consider themselves blessed, touched, divine. Fully embracing the “dark gift” aesthetic.

Regardless of the conflicting ideologies, the basics of the condition are universal. The Virus makes you stronger in every way. Sight, hearing, smell, taste, everything is amped up to a frenzied level. Muscle fibers are reinforced and made stronger, bones denser and resistant to breakage. The Virus converts its host into the ideal delivery tool. You are faster, smarter, stronger and more capable than any single human could ever hope to be. It acts as a sort of super-charger for existing human potential. Already smart? The Virus makes you a genius. An athlete? You’re practically a superhero. Your ability to heal is unparalleled. There is very little that you can throw at the Virus that it won’t be able to break down and repair given enough time and enough product.

This brings Gideon to a point that does not sit particularly well with Ernie. There are no addicts or drunks with the Virus. Their body is too good at breaking down the toxins, so like it or not, Ernie is destined to live the rest of his life in sobriety. What gives Ernie some comfort is that he still has a methodology for supporting his inner addict. He still has a way to reach that brief and intense high, a dependable condition to blame his life and its associated shortcomings on. But gone are the blurred and bleary-eyed days of a complete booze or drug-induced stupor. For some reason Ernie feels it is the equivalent of saying goodbye to an old friend.

Gideon explains that from what they have been able to learn about the Virus, it accesses the original programming from our genetic code, the blueprint of who we are, and it uses that primer to remake us into our ideal self at the age just before our bodies begin to decline, where genetic telomeres become too short for perfect replication. For most, it is the mid-twenties; however, for those individuals who have been blessed with good genes, where their individual blueprint was designed to last a little longer before declining, they will look older.

After Gideon outlines some of the basics, Ernie begins to see how the legends and lore of the past could be concocted: the appearance of youth, the need for blood, the ability to recover from injury. All these elements could easily become perceived by less enlightened men as being witchcraft of evil.

Ernie’s mind is awash with all this information. Even with his amped-up thinking ability, it is still a lot to take in. He begins to question whether or not he really is dead or just in a coma or something. Gideon finally finishes describing what the Virus will do to help his body when Ernie asks a major question which has been brewing in his mind.

--Sunlight? It can kill?

--Yes… and no. There is a reason I left the blinds to the room open, a reason there was a mirror across from you. As you can tell, the rays of the sun do not outright kill you, if that is what you are asking. And you certainly won’t sparkle like some sort of rare shimmering diamond. No, as best as we can tell, the Virus is neutralized by sunlight. So if you are forty years old and have only been infected for a few years, your appearance will return to your pre-infected state.

Ernie nods. He can’t escape the images of black and white vampire films, where sun causes the undead to burst into flames.

--Having witnessed what your pre-infected state is, I would sincerely suggest that you keep to the shade.

--The treatment… it’s blood, isn’t it?

--Yes, it is. I am afraid there are no options on this point. There is no way to avoid the need to consume blood. No measure of willpower and no alternative sources of nutrients will stave off this truth. We must consume human blood. Animal blood is sewage in your veins and belly. There is no alternative.

--But you don’t drink it?

--It is wasteful and indulgent. Some do still drink it, and certainly you will be strangely enticed by its flavor, but it is the least effective way to feed the Virus. It requires several pints a night to satisfy your thirst, if you are a “drinker”. I find it easier for the mind to palate when you are using but a few ccs of “treatment”, as opposed to several pints of blood. You need less and it accomplishes more when you tap a vein directly.

--If you don’t?

--The Virus is already in every organ and system in your body. It must be fed. If you deprive yourself of it, it will fight back, it will push you to feed and twist your will and your mind until your thirst is sated. We call it a Rage. It is the death rattle of the Virus as it surges all of your systems to find blood. Your condition, the Virus, is only communicable when you are in a Rage. When it believes its host to be dying, the Virus will seek out any viable new one.

Gideon continues, explaining that this is partly why numbers have remained so low within the infected community. Those who have gone into a Rage generally find themselves at the losing end of a shootout with other infected, armed citizens or police tactical intervention. Gunned down as if they are just another crazed junkie on PCP or some other designer drug. Because of the nature of the violence when in a Rage, most exposed to the Virus are simply too badly wounded to give the Virus time to heal them and become a new host.

--The Rage is very serious, and not something to be taken lightly. Go a few days and you will feel it scratching at your insides. Go a week and that itch will become something dark, clawing to get out. If you do not feed the beast, you will become it. You will leave nothing but suffering and pain in your wake. Once you have gone into a Rage, you cannot come back from it. Not to mention it brings a visibility to us that cannot be tolerated.

--But I wasn’t attacked by anything, so how did I get infected?

Gideon places his hands on his chin.

--It is a curiosity.

--Where do you get it? The product? You’re not telling me you have volunteers, right? Fake blood bank or something?

--Fake blood bank… hmm… clever. No, I am afraid we need a more consistent and reliable source. The city has a larger community of infected than most, and we cannot ride out the ebb and flow of a blood donor’s generosity. If we do not keep the community fed, we will not keep the killing off the streets.

Gideon walks over to Ernie’s cuffs and undoes them one at a time. Ernie’s wrists are slightly bruised where the cuffs have pinched. As he rubs the marks they fade, sinking deep into his skin as if they were never there to begin with.

--Well, ain’t that a thing?

Gideon indicates that Ernie should follow him. Ernie places his weight on his leg, expecting the pain to be excruciating, but there is no pain. His bum knee bends like a fifteen-year-old ballerina. His body feels a hundred pounds lighter and his skin is tickled by the shifting air around him.

--One last thing before I show you anything more.

Gideon reaches toward Ernie’s left hand and grasps it delicately with his own. Without any warning Gideon squeezes and crunches Ernie’s fingers in a half-dozen different places. Ernie screams in pain as the bones splinter. It is a gut-wrenching, horrifying pain, more potent than anything else he has ever felt. It is pain amplified by a thousand. Enough to make him want to curl up and huddle over his crushed digits.