Fiend (11 page)

Fiddle yourselves, kill yourselves, don’t make shit difference to me, the Albino says.

But we’re good to stay in here?

For now, yeah. Just don’t make a fucking sound. They’re out there, believe you me, out there waiting.

The Albino grabs the duffle and heads out the door. I lock the deadbolt and floor bar. KK says, This is the
safe
place you were talking about?

Far as I know, yeah.

With Casper tweaked out of his gourd? That’s your idea of safe?

Jared tells her to stop, to keep her voice down.

And I’m supposed to feel good about sleeping in the same filthy room with
him
? asks KK. May not eat me, but sure as shit won’t think twice before raping me. God, it’s
Deliverance
up here. Nice.

I don’t understand KK. I’m thinking this as I stare at her massive nose—I don’t understand one thing about you—because
I not only saved your life, but that of your lover, and then I bring you away from the city, that is to say, away from large groupings of walking dead, to the fucking riverhead of the finest crystal in Minnesota, which we already determined was the one thing keeping us alive, and this is how you treat me? With disdain? With resentment? Like what the fuck?

You have a better idea? I ask.

Just stop, baby, Jared says.

I hate Jared because his arm’s around KK and she seems to be calming and because he has that power now. He’s me. He’s who I was, who I want to still be.

They sit on the couch. She makes a disgusted face examining the cushions. Typewriter stands by the single-burner stove. He’s drinking a longneck. I tell him to toss me one. It tastes amazing. I haven’t had shit to drink or eat for what seems like days. I offer the rest to KK. She takes the bottle and our fingers touch. I glance at Jared, who sees the whole thing.

So what’s the plan, yo? KK says.

I’m not sure who she’s talking to. It’s just more bitching.

She says, Stay up here in the woods and shoot Tina? Is that as far as we’ve gotten?

What the fuck is your problem? Typewriter says.

This takes us all by surprise. The lumbering giant has a voice.

Serious, man, like what do you want from him? He saved your life. Get it? Your fucking life. And yours. And mine. Fuck, Chase like a regular old Forrest Gump.

Jared laughs and KK’s giving daggers with her eyes and
then they soften and the smallest hint of a dimple grows on her cheek.

Fuck me, she says.

I’m about to agree but I catch myself.

Fucking Rambo over there, she says.

We laugh.

We pass two bottles of beer.

Jared says, Funny, if you think about it. I mean, how many times did you pray that this was what life was reduced to? A group of friends holed away, enough crystal to pass the time?

For real, Type says.

Am I right? Pretty much heaven, if you ask me.

With an entire species trying to kill you, KK says.

Well yeah, it’s not
ideal
, per se. But there’s a bright side.

No prison, Type says.

No having to get money, Jared says.

No AA, KK says.

Fuck AA, Type responds.

We grin and laugh and light cigarettes and maybe Jared isn’t a complete dick.

He says, In a way, it’s our chance to create the kind of world we want. From scratch. However we want it, we can sculpt it. Utopia, you know?

With the walking dead.

Half full, baby, always. We’ve talked about this.

I know this is a mistake on his part. KK does her snort-head-jerk-eye-roll thing. She says, Not hearing that shit right now.

Yeah, I know. I’m sorry. Just trying to say we can make this work. That’s it. That’s all I’m saying.

He’s right, I say. It can work. Has to.

Straight up, Typewriter says.

I say, We have enough weapons to survive anything. Albino cooks like a motherfucker. We have shelter. Can make the grounds all strong and shit tomorrow, fortify them with fences. Set traps. You know Albino has canned goods to last months.

Exactly, Jared says.

And it will work.

Has to.

Has to what?

Has to work, KK says. She peels the paper label from the beer bottle. Has to work, she says again.

I’m not sure if any of us are really asleep. I’m curled into a fetus in the corner of what passes for the kitchen. The Albino is still out in his shack. Type tosses on the couch. I hear the deadbolt unhinge. I sit up. I’m pretty sure I see KK’s silhouette slip out the door.

Shit, she’s bolting.

She’s had enough, seeing her future as one of five people trapped in a one-room cabin and the rapid descent into a full-on shooting gallery, the walls splattered with the last squirt of our used rigs, us covered in scabs, grinding our molars down to nothing.

I get up, grab my pistol, and head outside. KK turns. Her face is a tired shade of fuck-my-life. She’s sitting on the one wooden step. I motion with my head and she nods. The wood is wet, slippery almost.

Probably shouldn’t be out here alone, middle of the night, you know?

Yeah.

She stares straight ahead. She wears an oversized University of Kentucky shirt pulled over her bunched-up knees. I tell her she’s got some big old titties.

She looks down at her kneecaps bulging against her shirt and laughs and it’s nice, the softness of it, genuine. Wind blows. The air is the mixture of pine and damp earth and ammonia from the Albino’s cooking. I tell her it smells good.

For reals.

I look at my wrist like I’m wearing a watch. I say, Should be done in about an hour.

He a good cook?

I cock my head. You for real? Guarantee you’ve had it. Clear as ice, shards bigger than golf balls.

Talking shit now.

Bigger than … I don’t know, pretty big though.

Word.

Yeah.

It’s fucked up talking about dope with KK. It feels like some violation, the colliding of two worlds that were never supposed to intersect, us and drugs, us together using, and that’s what had fucked us up, us trying to make them merge, us trying to have it all.

Maybe she senses this because she says, How you been?

I laugh. I say, Other than everyone who isn’t a junkie being dead, nearly dying myself, and now being stuck here?

Fucked up, right?

So fucked up. Like for the longest time, thought I was done for. Dead. That this was some sort of fucked-up trip that wouldn’t end. Like that shit people talk about when you die and your brain floods with chemicals.

Have no idea what you’re talking about.

You know, like white light?

I guess.

She hands me a butt. I light it. I think about the Chucks seeing two floating cherries.

Pretty shitty, I say.

What is?

Me. How I’ve been.

Word.

You a gangster now?

Sho’ nuff.

Just the same old shit. Selling and smoking. Selling and smoking. Day after day, I say.

The life and times of Chase Daniels.

Pretty exciting, huh?

Beats the alternative, KK says, sometimes, at least.

You really believe that?

Not even a little bit.

Then what the hell happened? I mean, Jesus, thought you were all about sobriety.

Don’t have to be a dick.

No, no, I say. I put my hand on her knee. This feels weird because it’s kind of like her boob. I put my hand back in my lap. I tell her I just meant how serious she was about it.

I know.

I’m waiting for more but it doesn’t come. Finally, she says, The same thing that always happens. You know how shit goes.

Yeah.

Life. You’re going about your day, maybe six months into the
new
you, and then one day you look around and you’re stocking shelves at Target, wearing that stupid fucking outfit of khakis and red polo, and people are just walking by, you know, like you’re invisible? Just some girl working for fifty cents over minimum wage. And all you’re thinking about is getting off work, but then you think about what you’ll do, like really, and you know you’ll drive home, cook macaroni and cheese, go to a seven o’clock meeting, listen to the same bitches complain about the same shit—I’m fat, my dad abused me, my job sucks, resentments are the number-one offender—and then you’ll go home and watch
Laguna Beach
and a rerun of
Everybody Loves Raymond
before going to bed by ten thirty. All to get up and do it again.

Suicide, I say.

That’s what I’m saying. But that shit always comes. Always. You know?

Don’t have to tell me.

KK says, And the thing I get to thinking is that maybe it’s not that great either way. Like I take one look at you, no offense, and know you’re fucking dying, like inside. And then I
think about the alternative like I was just talking about, that moment when you realize that the best you can do, I mean the absolute fucking best, is to be a less successful version of our parents. Like what the fuck? Seriously?

She’s speaking pure fucking gospel. The truest things I’ve ever heard and I want to believe there’s something else but I’m not sure.

Guess that’s not a problem anymore, I say.

How so?

Sobriety isn’t much of an option.

KK laughs. It’s not as gentle as the one earlier. She flicks her cigarette. She says, Full-on guiltless using, yo.

We smile. I want to kiss her.

Guess we’ll figure out the answer to that question, KK says.

What question?

If shit still sucks when you get what you wish for.

We’re staring at a Tupperware bin of scante. We’re giddy. It’s like the moment when the first pair of spread legs says
come on in
. I put the blue cover back on the bin. I say, We need to be smart about this. A schedule. Yeah, we need to make a schedule.

Bro, Typewriter says.

Yeah, for real, KK says.

No, he’s got a point, Jared says. We need to do this responsibly.

Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about. Okay, KK, how long did it take for Jared to start getting all fucked up?

What do you mean?

In the apartment. How long was it between the last use and when he started getting a fever?

They look at each other. Jared shrugs. KK thinks it was maybe two days. Jared agrees, then adds, Probably closer to a day and a half.

Okay, good. So we know we can’t go more than a day without dope, give or take a handful of hours.

Not going to be a problem, Typewriter says.

Stop, man. This is serious. So we should be smart about this. Maybe each of us is rationed a teener a day. This can be consumed however you want. But that’s it.

Dude, KK says.

Let me get my teener then, Type says.

In a minute, Jesus. We’ve got to get organized first. Have to make this place livable, safe.

That’s what I was talking about, Jared says.

So we each have responsibilities—

KK says, You serious? We’re going to have chores? Checklists?

Not chores, just … 
responsibilities
, like I said. Let’s not forget what’s waiting out in those woods.

Can we get our heads first?

KK, Jared says. He touches her forearm. He says, We need to make this place as secure as possible.

Fine, KK says.

Type?

Yeah, fine.

Okay, good. So the fence needs to be inspected, make sure it’s sturdy all over. And we need to do something about the sleeping arrangements. Get bedding or something.

And food, Jared says.

And food, yeah.

The Albino’s got plenty. Dude stocked up for this, knew it was comin’, Typewriter says.

Right, but we need to organize it. Make sure there’s nothing we need.

Weapons, Jared says.

Good, yeah. We’ve got plenty, but need to teach KK how to use them.

And Jared, she says.

Good, this is good, I say. I’m feeling better about everything. I’m holding hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of meth. I’m thinking about handing out the rations. I’m wondering if I’ll smoke mine or shoot it. And I’m thinking about us getting this rural shithole White House secure, us doing our
chores
, as KK called them, us sweating in the sun and working together and then us sitting around at night telling funny stories and it being good, a dinner party, friends catching up after years estranged.

So I can start with the fence, I say. Could use another hand, though.

I look at Typewriter. He stares into the dense forest. He says, Fuck that.

I’ll go, Jared says.

I’m still staring at Typewriter and his eyes jump between the trees and the bin of dope, never meeting mine. Okay, I say.

KK says, So that puts me in the house, making beds?

Unless you have another idea?

Could teach her how to load a gun, Type says.

Fine. That’s fine. But then you guys get the house ready, check on the food.

And what about your BFF? Casper the Friendly Ghost over there, KK says.

Not really trying to fuck around with him. Just let him be, I say.

Smart enough, Jared says.

Okay, so we’re good?

They all nod, staring at the bin. I crack the top. KK starts forward and I tell her I’ll dole out the rations and she tells me I’m a controlling motherfucker and I say, We need to be smart about this.

Got needles? she asks.

This breaks my heart. I tell her inside.

I hand a hardy shard to each of them. I take one for myself, palm an extra little guy. I tell them this needs to last the day. To not do it all. None of them respond. They’re already heading back inside. I think about following and distilling my dope on a spoon. It was better, shooting it, and I know it’s a quick hop, skip, and jump to completely fucked when needles become oxygen, so I head to the Civic. I hide the bin under the trash bag in the backseat. I take out the glass stem from the glove compartment. I place the smaller of the two chunks
into the bowl. I take out my torch. I burn and the chamber fills with the acidic aroma of meth, of pure fucking love, of any person I want to be, of any mood I want to claim as my own, and I take a slow pull, release the chamber, and my mouth is being suffocated and poisoned and ass-fucked and then my throat and lungs and I hold my breath, hold on to Buster, hold on to the pipe, hold on to my vision of us being some new colony, harmonious, all of us.