Vivisepulture (33 page)

A book of flesh and blood, but a book just the same. 

That was Lise’s punishment, and there could never have been a more fitting one for a man who had lived by the word than to grant him the one thing he had always craved, immortality by the word.

And now, finally, I can slip from the confines of the page and find new life inside your head. That is where the true immortality of the writer lies, after all. Not in the ink that stains the paper but in the imagination of the reader.

In you I am born again.

KITTY WANTS A HITTY

by

WAYNE SIMMONS

1957. 

Vegas, the most happening bar in Lark City. 

Tonight the joint was dead... 

Ravenous zombies moved across its floor, overturning tables and stools in their wake. 

A dark haired young woman stood on the stage. Her name was Dolly Bird. She was tonight’s entertainment. With her appetising mix of song and burlesque, Dolly would usually go down a storm. But tonight she stood in fear, her white blouse stained red, her black skirt ripped. A single high-heeled shoe lay broken on the stage. Her shapely nylon legs weren’t dancing, instead backing away from the closing throng. She screamed as one of the dead managed to curl its fingers around her ankle. 

Geordie Mac watched from the other end of the bar. His revolver was smoking. Several cadavers lay wasted at his polished black shoes. He aimed the revolver once more, but it clicked on empty.  

“Damn!” he muttered.

“Jesus Christ!” Dolly called to him. “Do something!” 

Geordie checked the pockets of his plaid jacket for more ammo. He was fresh out. He swore loudly. He ran one hand through his hair, frantically looking around the room. 

Dolly had grabbed the broken heel and was swinging it valiantly at the approaching dead. There were more of the bastards pouring through the doors. She hadn’t a chance against them. Geordie needed to act fast.  

He spotted the crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, just between the stage and the bar’s front window. He took a deep breath, threw the spent gun at the crowd of dead pouring in from the doors. He loosened his tie, climbed up onto the bar then jumped, hands reaching for the thin metal frame of the chandelier. The chandelier held, swinging Geordie towards the stage. He grabbed Dolly, scooping her up with his free arm as they were hurled towards the window. 

And then_        

The doorbell.

THE FUCKING DOORBELL! 

A menu kicked in, asking Geordie if he wanted to ignore the distraction and continue. But he pulled the wiretap from his head altogether, snapping out of the VR and back to his bedroom. He threw the wiretap down angrily on the bed next to his cell. He stood up, snatched the towel dressing gown from its peg by the door. He pulled it on then grabbed his cell from the bed. 

Geordie left the bedroom, syncing the lights with his cell. His eyes narrowed, adjusting to the florescent beam spilling across the apartment. He entered the living area, finding his slippers parked on the fur carpet, next to the sofa. The Box played in the corner. It was ten thirty. Some rubber-faced crone was reading the news on Channel 3.    

Geordie set his cell on the coffee table. The bell rang again and he bellowed, “Alright, alright I hear you!” 

He reached for the snub on the door, opening it on the safety. His heart sank. “Oh for Christ’s sake… it’s
you
.” He closed the door, sighed, undid the safety, then opened it again. He allowed the door to swing behind him as he retreated back into the apartment. He fell into the black leather sofa, stared petulantly at the Box. 

A young girl pushed through, coming into the living area. She was a mess. Peroxide dreads sprouted from her head. Spindly, tattooed arms dangled from the sleeves of an  old NEW YAWK DOLLS tee. She wore vinyl drains that made a sound as she walked. Her name was Kitty McBride. 

“Kitty, what are you doing here?” Geordie said, still watching the Box. 

“I need a fix, Geordie. I_” 

But Geordie’s hand was raised. “Kitty…” he began, his voice gentle, fingers rubbing his temples, “I’ve told you before, sweetheart. You’re on rations…” 

“But I-I haven’t had any this week. I-I_”

Geordie cut in again, “Babe, I called by your place six days ago! I gave you the usual, and you’re telling me
you haven’t had any
?!” He threw his arms into the air, laughed. “Come on, doll, I ain’t stupid! I know every single ounce I sell.
Every fucking ounce
. And you got your dues on Saturday. At ten thirty. Six days ago almost,” and here he raised his finger, “to the fucking hour.” 

“Yeah, but I lost all that. Tried to quit, jacked it down the can...” 

Geordie shook his head. “Tomorrow, Kitty. Ten thirty. Not a second before. ” 

But Kitty was persistent, moving towards him, her whole body begging. “Come on, Geordie! I just need a little to take the edge off, see me through…” 

“No.” 

“I can get the cash, sync it to you_”

“It’s not about the money!” His tone was incredulous. “Look, Kitty, I’ll be honest with you. Your pop is Paul Mc Bride, yeah? He’s the biggest gangster in this whole fucking city. If he finds out you’re here talking this shit with me, it’ll be my balls on the line. Don’t you get it? He wants you cuttin’ down, girl, and what Daddykins wants, he gets. Right?!” 

“Geordie…” she said, almost sobbing now, “I’ll do anything for that hit...” She drew closer to him, bent down on her knees, reached her hands under his dressing gown. 

But Geordie shuffled away. He grabbed her wrists, held them tight, shaking her as he spoke. “Are you out of your fucking…?!” He pushed Kitty away, stood up, and marched angrily towards the window. He leaned against the glass, blowing out some air, looking across his first floor view of Lark City’s Titanic Quarter. His head was shaking again. “Get out, Kitty…” he said. She went to talk more but he turned, this time his voice raised, “Get out, get out, get out!” 

Kitty slammed her fist against the $900 coffee table beside the sofa. She made a beeline for the door, head held low, swearing under her breath. She banged the door behind her, leaving Geordie standing by the window. He watched through the glass as she left the apartment block, her tiny little body swallowed up by the crowds below. 

…

Titanic Quarter. A place of money. Its stink hung in the air like poisoned perfume. Yet, Kitty had nothing. No money. No dope. 

She moved through the crowd, mind buzzing, stomach churning, sick with desire. Every part of her was focused on one thing: where to get that hit. Geordie wasn’t the only dealer in Lark. There were others. But they’d want more money and, regardless of how a place like Titanic might lead you to think otherwise, money didn’t come easy... 

She thought of what Geordie said about her dad. Paul McBride had money. He controlled most of Lark’s black market. Everyone, including Geordie, answered to Paul McBride. She could call him up, tell him what was happening, make him talk to Geordie, convince him to give her the dope. But she hadn’t talked to her dad in years. Not properly, anyway. And this would involve a proper talk, one where she spoke instead of just nodding or grunting.  

Kitty needed other options. 

She thought of Charles 7, the tech hack down by the markets in Cathedral Quarter. She thought of thieving something for him, a cell or wiretap or credit card, anything she could trade for cash. She thought of her own cell, of how much she could get for it, even though trading your cell in this day and age was like trading a kidney. She was thinking of trading a kidney when she slammed against someone in the crowd. 

“Hey, watch where you’re going, ye little_” An older woman glared at her. She was glamorous to a fault, decked out in leather and real fur. Her dark hair shone in the bright neon light of the street. Her face was smooth and polished, like the mannequins that smiled at you from the boutiques down by Cathedral. This was Dolly Bird.  

“Hey…” Kitty said, her eyes looking down, her face blushing. 

Dolly’s voice was full of surprise, “Kitty. You look…
terrible
…”

Kitty shuffled awkwardly, smiled. “Yeah, well…” She looked at her fingernails, scratching them with her thumb. 

A billboard moved across the sky. It was playing a trailer for popular game show, REALITY EXTREME. The crowds around her stared as if hypnotised by the familiar voices of the show’s hosts, but Kitty didn’t care. This was wasting time. She didn’t have time. 

She went to move but Dolly placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hey wait. Wanna grab something to eat? My shout.”  

An idea suddenly dawned on Kitty. “Yeah, maybe...” she said, smiling at Dolly. “Thing is, I’m kinda in a hurry. If you sync me some cash, though, I could grab something later...”

But Dolly’s head was shaking. “Kitty, do you know how many years I’ve been an addict?”

Kitty didn’t know. She didn’t care. 

“Look, kid, I’ll square with you. I’m on a break. Got a bit of time before the next client. So what say I shout you a coffee and a bite to eat. Come on, we can catch up. Hey, you know that new_”

But Kitty was already walking, leaving Dolly mid-sentence. The other woman’s voice trailed off, swallowed by the noise of the crowd as Kitty left the main square at Titanic, moving into the city’s central throughway. An excited babble greeted her, the same babble she’d hear every weekend as people began their hunt for pleasure, seeking out wine and song and whatever fetish made their lives complete. 

Kitty turned onto Tomb Street, Lark’s red light district. It weaved through the city like a spooked snake, filled with peep shows and freak shows and endless parades of painted ladies, dancing like tattooed marionettes. Its main attraction was the Penny Dreadful whorehouse, a Fancy Pants brothel where stuck-up broads like Dolly Bird worked, dames who’d look down on a common street whore like Kitty. But Kitty didn’t care. She had more pressing business to attend to; that burning in her veins calling her, begging her. She needed a hit and she needed it bad. 

She found Vegas. This was Tomb’s most popular bar. Converted from an old church, Vegas stood between two strip clubs, name written above its window in red neon lettering. Kitty pushed through the saloon style doors. The joint’s owner-cum-server, known simply as the Bar Man, stood in front of his taps and bottles as if on guard. He was cleaning a glass. Their eyes met as she came in, neither smiling at the other. 

“Water,” Kitty said to him, but he was already pouring it. He slid the glass over to her. She lifted it. 

She found her usual spot by the back of the bar; a red plastic sofa. Kitty removed the chequered cushions, as always, then sat down. Her tiny body leaned over the table in front, hands cradling her drink. She waited, fingers tapping the glass, toes dancing, cold sweat breaking across her skin, eyes alert and searching. 

It was the usual crowd in tonight. The alcos, staring at their drinks, talking to themselves. The zone heads, wiretaps on faces, clear plastic coils running to their cells, lounging back in their seats, bodies shaking as the code flowed, drowning their brains in whatever VR release was doing the rounds. 

Time passed slowly. Kitty could almost hear the grind of each moment, the desperate slowness of each tick of the imaginary clock in her head. Her veins felt like jagged ice now. 

Kitty needed that fucking hit. 

The first day was always the hardest. This was the fifth day, and while the constant puking and shitting had pretty much cleared, little of any sustenance contained within her small, washed-out body, she was still getting it bad. For Kitty, heroin wasn’t just a weekend drug. It was her whole raison d’etre. It was the first thing she thought of when she woke and the last thing she thought of before sleeping. She dreamed about it. She made plans of where to get it, how to get it, how to get the money for it. She thought about it when she was being fucked, calculating with every painful thrust just how much money the John was going to give her, and how much heroin that would buy.

Movement. Kitty’s eyes lit up. Two men heading towards the bathrooms. She watched as a third looked around nervously before following. 

Kitty waited a while before she, too, got up and followed, leaving her glass of water on the table untouched. Her eyes met the Bar Man’s as she moved, but she looked away quickly. Slipped past a drunken old Throwback reaching for her and entered the bathrooms..  

The bathrooms were what you’d expect in a hovel like this; grimy tiles, sombre line of cubicles facing a yellow-toothed urinal. One of the taps was dripping, its constant rhythm like a countdown, like the beating of Kitty’s heart as her mouth and lips grew dry with anticipation. 

She found the three men huddled in the far corner. As she moved towards them, they stopped talking. 

“Hey…” she said, her voice echoing. “You guys dealing?”

One of the men stood forward. He was tall, thin with jet black hair greased across his temples. A toothpick rattled against his teeth.  

“Nope,” he said. “Now get out of here, kid.”

But Kitty didn’t move. “I’m not a kid,” she said, completely deadpan. “I need a hit.”