the hose and bag. Then I tie the tourniquet above her elbow and swab her skin with alcohol. I hold the needle in my right hand and her arm in my left, bracing the vein with my thumb, and slide the needle in. It's a good strong vein. Blood fills the tube. I release the valve and pressure from her young, healthy heart pumps blood through the hose and starts to fill the bag. I watch the rich, almost purple blood and my dick starts to get hard.
It's over in less than five minutes. I break down my works, carefully slide the IV bag inside my jacket and it's over. I'm gonna drink this straightaway when I get home so I don't even have to worry about adding anti-clotting agents. She's got a tiny mark on her arm, but her skin is dark and I don't think she'll be bruising. Little luck and she'll think it's a bug bite. Before I leave I open her handbag and shake the contents onto the ground. I take the five bucks she's got and her cell phone. I'll just dump the phone later, but it'll make it look a little more like a mugging this way. I stand up and get ready to move the plywood out of the way. I stop.
I take another look at her, limp and helpless on the ground. I should take another pint. Just to be safe I should take one more. Hell, I should just drain her. I can. I can carry her to the avenue like she's my drunk girlfriend. Get her in a cab, take her home and have all the time in the world to get it all. Fucking chick like that, walking around loaded, shit-faced out of her mind, chick like that is asking for trouble. Shit, chick like that probably has a death wish. Be doing her a fucking favor. I bend over to pick her up.
I stop.
It's the Vyrus. It's just the fucking Vyrus talking. It's not me. I know better. That's not the way to do things. It's stupid and it's weak. It's not who I am. I may not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but I'm smarter than that. And I'm not that weak. Not yet.
So I shove the plywood out of the way, step onto the sidewalk, shove it back and head for home. I get about two steps before Hurley clobbers me again.
– I fucking knew it.
Oh, hell.
– Fucking knew it. Consorting. Consorting and poaching.
I keep my eyes closed. I know who I'm gonna see when I open them and I'd just as soon put it off for another minute.
– Mr. Clean. Mr. Shit Don't Stick on Me, and there he is, consorting with the Coalition and poaching that chick.
– Don't say chick.
– Yeah, yeah. Poaching that woman. I told Terry, told him and told him, but he coddles this guy. Knows he spooks for the Coalition and he lets him stay down here anyway. Well not anymore. Wanted evidence?
I open my eyes. Closet. Dark. Dank. Dim cracks of light sneak in around the edges of an ill-fitting door.
– I got evidence.
I'm lying on my side. I go to push myself up and realize that my hands are cuffed and my ankles are shackled. I squirm into a sitting position. The brick wall behind my back sweats moisture.
– What kind of evidence?
– Well I saw him, didn't I? Me and Hurley both saw him.
– But doing what, Tom?
– We saw him take that Coalition chick… woman into his place, and we saw him poach that other ch… woman.
– How do you know she was Coalition? Are they wearing uniforms now?
– Trust me, you saw this one, you'd know she was Coalition.
– How?
– How? The way you always know. Had that attitude, that
– Don't call women bitches.
– Yeah, right.
I scoot closer to the door and put my eye against one of the cracks. I'm back at Society headquarters. Squares of carpet sample are spread around on the floor and handmade anarchist protest posters that look like oversized ransom notes cover the walls. I can see Tom Nolan's back. He's standing at a hot plate, stirring a big pot of something steaming and smelly.
– So you saw him with a woman who might be Coalition. And what else?
– She was Coalition. But even if she wasn't? He poached. Right on the street, just whacked that girl.
– Was she a child?
– What?
– Was she a child?
– In her twenties or something.
– So she's not a girl, right?
– Right, yeah. He whacked this woman right on the street and dragged her into a construction site. Tapped her right there for anyone to see. A total fucking abuse of Society policies. On our turf. A slap in the face to our beliefs and methods. That can't be disputed, period. And besides, you're the one who's always going on about how more women are tapped than men.
Lydia comes into view and stands next to Tom.
– I'm not
– That's what I'm saying.
– So you just had Hurley knock him out and carry him down the street to here?
– Hey, I had to take action. There's no telling what he's plotting with his bosses up there, what kind of trouble they have him stirring up. It was time to deal with it. He's a Coalition stooge and the time has come.
– Uh-huh.
She turns from Tom and faces someone I can't see.
– Hurley, did you see the woman he took into his apartment?
– Yeah.
– Was she Coalition?
– Don't know. Coulda bin.
– You think she was?
– Don't know. Tom said she wuz. Coulda bin. Nice lookin' lady.
– Uh-huh.
Tom turns from the hot plate.
– Hey, don't say lady.
– Why?
– Because it's demeaning.
Lydia looks at Tom.
– Get off him, Tom.
– What the hell, you just gave me shit for-
– Because you know better. Hurley's an old dog. Let him talk how he wants.
– Jesus! Fucking double standards. That's, you know what that is? That's counterrevolutionary. We're all equals. We're all equals or we're not. I don't like rules, but if we're gonna have them they have to apply across the board. -Get off it, Tom.
She turns back to Hurley.
– What about the woman he tapped?
– S'a pretty good tap, all tings considered like.
– But was it by the book?
There's silence and I can hear Hurley's brain grinding away on that one. Probably trying to remember what a book is.
– Not da way Terry likes it done. Dat's why I sapped 'im.
– OK.
She turns back to Tom.
– So now what?
