The Seven Habits

“And I want to keep this one, see? I want her to live.”

Ocean’s entire body felt as if it were tingling. Just like her legs used to when she’d sit on them for too long. She was vaguely aware that she was crying. Vessel’s hand snaked through the gap between the bars, seeming fuzzy and unreal. The woman’s palm touched the side of her face, but it didn’t really feel like her face, more like there was a thin barrier between her flesh and the woman’s hand, muting the sensation.

“I’m sorry, honey. I really am. But now do you see why you’ve got to let me out of here? Why I’ve got to get away before it’s too late?”

Ocean watched, detached, as her own hands lowered to the plank. She observed her fingers wrapping around the rough wood, barely noticing when a splinter jammed into the soft webbing between her thumb and forefinger. Funny that she couldn’t really feel that. There should have been more pain…

She saw herself lifting the piece of wood, heard the slight grating as it slid from the troughs that held either end, the slow creak as the door swung open.

Vessel was hugging her then, holding her tightly against that firm round belly and petting her hair with long strokes.

“We’ll get out of here,” she whispered. “Me and you, girl. Get out…”

Ocean nodded her head slowly, realizing there were no more tears. It was as if she’d wasted every drop of water within her body, and she wondered if she would ever be able to cry again. If she would ever want to.

“Come on, honey. Let’s go.”

Vessel put her arm around Ocean’s shoulders and gently guided her. Together, they turned away from the cell, toward the metal door that had hidden this dark secret for so long.

Ocean wasn’t surprised to see Gauge leaning against the door frame. After all, it only made sense. If there was ever a chance that she could begin to find happiness again, surely even that would be taken from her.

Any kindness she’d once thought had graced his features was gone now. His face was as blank as the concrete floor under her feet and his eyes twice as hard and cold. He studied the two women silently for a moment and then shook his head slightly.

“I told you, Ocean. I told you not to open this fucking door, didn’t I?” Gauge raised his hand and his eyes seemed to study the graceful curve of the sickle he carried, the little nicks where blade had sunk into bone. “You should have listened, sweetie. You should have listened to me.”

He took a few test swings and smiled as the tool swished through the air.

Without another word, be began to walk toward them, his weapon swinging lightly by his side.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Funny thing is, this entire time I’ve got the theme to Mission Impossible goin’ through my head, if you can believe that. I mean, I understand the importance of what I was doin’, ya know? I totally grasped the fuckin’ gravity of the situation. I was in this house to kill a woman who would otherwise go on to infect thousands. Hell, it’s hard to tell how many people she’d spread her sickness to already, dollymoppin’ around in bars the way she’d been.

But I still couldn’t get that damn song outta my mind.

Then I hear this thump from upstairs, right? And I know she’s up there somewhere. This sick, infective woman is up there in the darkness, doin’ God knows what, and I gotta get from point A to point B with her being none the wiser.

So I sneak across that foyer just like I was a cat cuttin’ through a pack of sleeping dogs. I’m almost walkin’ on tiptoe, not really putting my full weight down for fear of my footsteps being heard or some shit. Maybe taking two, three steps every five seconds or so.

I get to the stairs, and I start goin’ up, but I’ve got my body sidled up real close and tight to the railing. See, steps aren’t anything more than pieces of wood laid across supports. You put your weight down in the very center and that sucker might bow a little. Might pop and creak. But you keep close to the edge and you’re walking right on top the framework, see? The steps are nailed down to that sucker and since there’s no give when you place your foot down, there’s no noise either. And that’s the way I ascend, one at a time, so slow that grass could grow faster.

Part of me keeps expectin’ her to appear at the top at any second. I mean, that’s the way it always plays out in movies, right? Be standing up there with a baseball bat or fire poker or something. So I’ve got my eyes glued to that little rectangle of hallway up there and my gun, which seemed so damn light when I first pulled it outta the bag, now feels like a fuckin’ brick in my hand.

The entire time, that water is still running. I figure maybe she was getting ready to take a hot bath or something. Always makes me feel a little better when I’m not well, so why the fuck not? She started a bath but then got too sick to actually take it. Too sick to even go back and turn the water off.

But that’s fine by me, because I’ve got the duffel slung over my shoulder, right? Even as careful as I was bein’, it still thumped up against the railings every so often. I mean, I was doin’ okay for a layman, but I’m not exactly a burglar by trade, ya know? That water was helpin’ to mask all these little sounds that seemed so loud to me. My breathing. The swish of the Tyvek suit every time I’d move.

I started feelin’ a little light-headed. To tell the truth, I’m not really sure if that was from adrenaline, the Vicodin I’d popped earlier, or from breathin’ in my own carbon dioxide ‘cause I was wearin’ that damn mask. Fuckin’ thing had started itchin’ like hell, too, and the metal band was pressin’ against my nose like some CIA torture device.

All told, it probably took me about ten minutes to climb that flight of stairs. That’s how sneaky I was bein’, see? When I finally get to the top, I’m standing in this little hallway. Nice carpet, looked like maybe it’d been replaced not too long ago, more pictures on the wall, some little shelves with vases and doilies on them. Typical chick shit.

About halfway down the hall, there’s a door off to the left. It’s shut tight, I figure it was probably a second bedroom or office or somethin’. Hell, coulda been a closet for all I knew. I mean, it was directly across from another other door, only that one was open and I could see white linoleum that kinda shimmered with water.

But this is all peripheral, dig? ‘Cause the hall ends in yet another room, the master suite or whatever the fuck they’re callin’ it these days. Through that doorway, I can see Ms. Clarice fuckin’ Hudson. She’s got her back to me and she’s standin’ in front of this little vanity, the kind women sit at to do their makeup and hair and shit.

First thing I notice is that the bitch is bare-ass naked. So I think I musta been right with my whole bath theory and all, right, but as I creep down that hallway with Steel’s pistol leveled out in front of me, I begin to get this sour feelin’ in my stomach. Somethin’ just ain’t right, ya know? For one, she’s clawing at the air like a little puppy who has to pee scratches at the door. She standin’ there, nude as the day she was born, pawin’ at the air.

That could be explained away. Rule number six: muddled thinking. I’m thinkin’ the bitch probably doesn’t even know why she’s doing what she’s doin’, they’re almost in total control of her now.

As I get closer, it begins to look like maybe she’s painted herself with lipstick as well, which was just bizarre, man. Almost looked like splotches of red camouflage pattern. All over. But when I looked closer there were also thin, dark lines everywhere, like she’d taken an eyebrow pencil and drew road maps all up and down her body. I’m talking from the shoulder blades all the way down to the soles of her feet. Only those feet? They were dark, man. Like she’d stepped in paint or some shit.

Then it hit me. Sign fucking seven: bleed out. That wasn’t lipstick, man, it was the blood that had seeped outta every pore on her body and dried on her skin. That meant the network of lines would be veins, and her feet were so dark because without the heart to pump it, gravity had pulled the rest of the blood in her body to the lowest point.

Fuck yeah, I’m sayin’ she was dead. Haven’t you been listening? I’ve been tellin’ ya this all along, man. How many different ways do I hafta say the bitch was already dead for you to get it through