Joe Pitt 1 - Already Dead (2 page)

They have this building on 85th between Madison and Fifth. Nice piece of real estate. One
of those anonymous brownstones that could be a consulate building or a discreet plastic
surgeon's office. And, hey, right around the corner from the Guggenheim and the Met.
Everything you want to know about these guys you can tell from the address: old,
traditional, wealthy, powerful, and no fun at all.

I take the three steps up to the front door and press the button set in brass right next
to the security camera.

--Yes?

--Pitt.

--Who?

--Joe Pitt. I have an appointment.

There's a pause and I slide into the sliver of shade available in the doorway.

--I'll need to see your face, Mr. Pitt.

--Are you kidding?

--I need to confirm your identity, Mr. Pitt.

This is choice. This is fucking brilliant. I hold the robe up over my head to shade my
face and use my free hand to pull the veil quickly aside. I can feel the burn scorch my
cheek and chin. I'll be bright red for a few days until it peels.

--Thank you, Mr. Pitt.

The door buzzes and I push it open and step into the foyer. It's a
hardwood-and-muted-colors kind of a place. The weasel that made me strip is sitting at the
security desk. I'd like to say that

he's big, but that's just not the case. I'm big. This guy left big several workouts ago
and has been living in huge ever since. He comes out from around the desk and looms at me.

--Sorry about the inconvenience, Mr. Pitt. May I take your things?

I pull off the robe and the headpiece and he takes them over to a coatrack while I check
out my face in a mirror by the door. Yeah, I can see myself in the mirror, big deal. My
face is a little pink just from being out, but there's a violent red streak across it from
pulling open the veil. I can already see where the skin is turning white and flaking. It
hurts like fuck. The steroid king comes back over and looks at my face.

--Hmm. I could get you something for that if you like. Some unguent or Bactine perhaps?

I stare at him.

--What happened to the guy used to be here?

--I'm sorry?

--What happened to the guy used to be here that knew who I was and didn't need to see my
face? --Oh, him.

The giant walks over to his desk and sits down so that he's back on eye level with me.

--He was executed.

No playful euphemisms around here, boy. No.
He was retired
or
dismissed.
Just get it out there,
He fucked up so we dragged him outside and staked his hands and feet to the ground and
waited for the sun to come up and burn him dead from advanced skin cancer in about twenty
minutes.
How do I know they did it that way? I said they were traditionalists. That's the way
traditionalists do it.

--Too bad, he was alright.

Big boy just watches me.

--So any chance I can get in for my appointment? It's a really beautiful day out there and
I want to make the most of it before it gets cloudy.

The giant picks up a phone and presses a button.

--He's here. I did. Thank you, sir.

He places the phone back in its cradle and points at the door across the foyer.

--Just up the stairs and to the right.

--Thanks.

I walk to the door and he presses a button on his desk to buzz it open. I stand there
holding the door and turn back to him.

--Hey, who they got me seeing anyway?

--Mr. Predo will be meeting with you today, Mr. Pitt. Just up the stairs and to your right.

--Yeah, thanks.

I step through the door and let it swing shut behind me. Dexter Predo. Fuck. Predo is the
head of the Coalition's secret police, and party chairman all rolled into one. He's the
guy keeps everybody in line. He's the guy in charge of staking people out in the sun.

I take the stairs to the second floor. The stairwell walls are covered with portraits of
great Coalition members from back a couple hundred years right up to the present. At the
top of the stairs is a photo of the current Coalition Secretariat, the twelve members and
the prime minister. But the truth is, most of the faces in this photo are the same as the
ones in the first one down at the bottom of the stairs. Not a lot of turnover in the old
Secretariat. Not pictured anywhere, Dexter Predo, a man who prefers to remain obscure.

The stairs reach up for three more flights, but I've never been asked beyond the second
floor, and I'm not looking for an invitation. The upper floors are for Coalition members
only. As it is I'm lucky my appointment isn't in the basement. I walk a short way down the
hall to the first door on the right and knock.

--Come in.

Predo's office is modest as these things go. I mean, I'm sure all his little objets d'art
are priceless, but it's not like he has a killer view of the park. Not that the shades
would be up anyway. He's at an oak cabinet, pulling a file. Three guesses whose it is.

--Pitt.

--Mr. Predo.

--Please. Come in. Have a seat.

I couldn't tell you how old Predo really is, he looks about twenty-five, but he was around
long before I was born. He looks up from the file, sees that I'm still standing and points
to a chair in front of his desk.

--A seat, Pitt, have a seat. Be comfortable.

I sit, but I'm not comfortable, and it's not just because the chair is too small. Predo
remains standing and flips through the pages of the file.

--Rough business last night, Pitt.

--Yes, it was.

--I don't suppose there was any way for you to reduce the damage?

--I don't suppose there was.

--You might have taken the time to destroy the evidence.

I look at my lap for a moment. He taps the edge of the file against the cabinet to get my
attention back.

--The evidence, Pitt?

--That's a residential block, Mr. Predo. If I had torched the school the tenements next
door would have gone as well. Bird and the Society would have been all over my back. Plus,
there was the other kid still alive in there and all.

--I don't much care what Terry Bird and his ragtags have to say. And as for the kid? That
was the evidence I was speaking of, Pitt. I'm still wearing the white cotton gloves. I
slip them off. The knife cuts on my left hand are just thin white traces now. By evening
they'll be entirely gone. Predo gets tired of waiting for me to respond.

--Barring that, you might have rigged the scene. A murder-suicide perhaps.

--I'm curious, which one would have been the suicide? One of the shamblers with a broken
neck? The chick with the knife in her brain? The kid with his head ripped open?

Predo pushes the drawer of the cabinet closed and walks behind the desk.

--The real question is how it got that bad in the first place. What was it that kept you
from destroying the filth more cleanly?

--They were eating the kid's brain. I wasn't gonna wait until they gobbled the second one
and went to sleep. I had to go at the Goddamn things while they were feeding. They fought
back. It got sloppy. Next time I'll let them have the kid.

--
Sloppy
is an apt word, Pitt. It did indeed get sloppy, and has potential to get sloppier. The
police are involved. And worse, the press. Such a grisly murder with
Satanic
and
supernatural
overtones, how can they resist? It must be quelled, Pitt. It must be hushed before it
draws too much attention and there are prying eyes. It is exactly the kind of business we
avoid, Pitt. It is exactly the kind of business you are meant to take care of. It is why
we tolerate your independence. And am I to understand that on top of this mess, there is a
carrier involved? And that you failed to destroy that carrier?

Fucking Philip! I should have known. That prick never calls just to lend a hand.

--I'll take care of it tonight.

--How will you do that, Pitt, with your neighborhood crawling with police and newscasters
and the curious?

--I'll take care of it tonight.

Predo stares at me. He drops the file on his desk and finally sits in his chair.

--You will need to. Tonight and no later.

I wait for it.

--We have found a patsy.

--There was a witness, you gonna change what he saw?

--No we are not, Pitt. We do not need to. The witness is our patsy.

I close my eyes.

--The child whose life you saved will now return the favor by paying the price for this
horrid crime.
He, of course, has not volunteered to do so, but the evidence we have arranged will make
his guilt a foregone conclusion by sundown. But for it to stick, you will need to see that
there are no further incidents of this nature.

I open my eyes and look at him. He raises a finger.

--Be useful, Pitt. Your value to the Coalition lies in your usefulness. Be useful and
Ênconspicuous. Destroy the carrier.

I get up from my chair.

--I'm more than useful. I take care of my neighborhood and clean up all the trash the Clans
don't want to deal with. So unless you've found another slob to handle your business below
Fourteenth, stay off my back.

I head for the door.

--Indeed we shall. But for now, be assured that the cleaning of last night's mess will come
with a price, Pitt.

--Yeah, just like everything.

I pull the door open.

--One more thing, Pitt.

I stop and stand in the open doorway, my back to him.

--From what I understand, the boy's veins had been tapped. He had been bled. Unusual
behavior for zombies, yes?

I stand there.

--Remember what your mother told you,
finish everything on your plate.

I walk out and close the door behind me.

He's right, of course. Tap some kid's veins, take a couple pints and leave him breathing?
You might as well put up a sign that says VAMPYRES FEEDING HERE, COME AND KILL US. Of
course most people who heard about something like that would just think it was freaky, but
there are folks out there who know. And those are exactly the ones we don't want around.
Which is why my apartment is so hard to get into.

At my place on 10th between First and A, I have to punch a code into the street door to
get into the vestibule, then open two locks to get into the building hallway. After that
my door is the first on the left. It looks normal, but it's a factory door I salvaged. I
had to rebuild the frame with steel bolsters so it could carry the weight, but it was
worth it. If you want to bust into my place your best bet is to go through the walls.

I open the three-key lock, turning all the keys in the right order to keep the alarm from
going off inside. I step in, close and lock the door and enter the five-digit code into
the keypad that rearms the system. No one would hear the alarm if it did go off, not the
neighbors or the police or even me. All that would happen is the lights inside would flash
on and off to tell me someone was trying to get in, and a beeper I carry at all times
would start to vibrate. And if I was at home, I would wait for whoever it was to get in,
and then kill them and drink their blood. But that's just me.

I walk down the short hall to the living room, take off the burnoose and toss it on the
couch. I want to get cleaned up, but I don't go into the bathroom on my right or through
the kitchen to the bedroom. Instead I go to a spot in the living room, bend down, flip up
a small square of hardwood and pull on the steel ring hidden underneath. A large panel set
into the floor swings up, revealing a short spiral staircase. I go down, pulling the panel
closed behind me.

This is the basement apartment that I rent under another name. This is where I live. I
have a bed, a bathroom, a dorm fridge, a hot plate, my computer, my stereo and my TV and
DVD player. The door down here isn't quite as fancy as the one upstairs. I just sealed it
by driving nails directly through the door frame and into the door. But first I installed
a kick panel in the bottom half, I can boot it out from the inside and wriggle through if
there's ever anyone upstairs I don't want to deal with. I also have a small window at
sidewalk level, but I've dry-walled over it so no damn Van Helsing can sneak in here and
pull the curtains away and burn me to death while I'm trying to sleep.

I run the tub. While I'm waiting I go to the mini-fridge and check my stash. This is the
extra fridge, in the closet, the one with the padlock. I pop it open and take a look. With
what I tapped last night I have a dozen pints stored up. That's not a bad stash, enough
for a month or more. But like any good junkie I'm always looking to lay in a little extra
for the dry times. I don't need it now, I drank one of the kid's pints last night, but it
will help with the burns, and I can afford to bogart a little. I take one of the plastic
pint bags and go sit in the cool tub.

My entire body is dark pink, just a half shade from red. The strip on my face is
fire-engine and starting to peel. I sip from the pint. The taste of the blood uncoils
things inside me. It oozes down my throat and I feel an instant tingling rush as the Vyrus
that makes me what I am attacks the new blood and begins to colonize it. The burns ease up
and I can almost see them lighten as I watch. I close my eyes, sip the blood and think
about the zombies and how I'm gonna deal with this mess.

It's not like it's my job to kill zombies for Christ's sake. But the damn things are so
sloppy until they fall apart that it's never a good idea to have them around attracting
attention. Last week I caught the first sign that there might be a carrier down here.

It's just after sundown and I'm lounging in Tompkins, having a smoke, enjoying a
sweltering summer evening. Normal shit, just like people do. I don't have a job at the
moment, no money gigs, no errands for the Coalition or the Society, and no Good Samaritan
crap. Just me on a bench puffing on a Lucky and thinking I might drift over to the Mister
Softee truck and grab a cone. Then this squatter comes stumbling past me stinking to high
heaven. Nothing unusual there, squatters all stink, and most of them are junkie freaks and
expert stumblers as well. What tips me off on this guy is the bloody hole chewed in the
back of his head.