Already Dead, Charlie Huston (odlomci)

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izvinjavam se ako ima gresaka, OCR nekad bas zasere... evo, nastavak  od strane kojom se zavrsava odlomak na http://www.pulpnoir.com/samples/already_dead_sample.pdf

The uptown guys are making a point. They could say what they
need to say on the phone. They could wait for dark to rip me a
new asshole, but they want to make me burn a little. They want
to flex and teach me a lesson for getting sloppy. That's what's on
the surface anyway. The real reason they're doing it this way is be-
cause I still haven't joined the Coalition. And the truth is, I
haven't joined exactly because of shit like this. But I did get
sloppy last night, and someone is gonna swing for it. So I'll fry a
little to keep them happy and to keep myself alive. Because I
don't want to die. Except, oh yeah, I'm already dead.
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 sev-
era1 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 tale your
things?
I pull off the robe and the headpiece and he takes them over to
a coat rack 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
1 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 I
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. I-le 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, thanlts.
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 ill 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 invita
tion. 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 objects 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 arc 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 1'11 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 tale care of. It is why we
tolerate your independence. And am 1 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?
-1'11 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. %night 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 inconspicuous. 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 walls 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 1 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 doorframe
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. 1 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. 1 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 1
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.
I hop off the bench, wrap my arm around the squatter's shoulders
and steer him toward a dark corner of the park. His head
bobs around and he looks at me and gnashes his teeth a few times
like he'd sure like to sink them into my noggin, but this guy is too
far gone, just enough brain left to keep him on his feet for a couple
days more. Once we get away from the dog run and basketball
courts, I push him down on a bench and take a look at the back
of his head. Whoever opened him up wasn't dainty about it. No
tools on this job except maybe a rock. There's even a couple teeth
lodged in the hole.
Zombies eat brains. It's their raison d'etre. It's the thing that
keeps them going. Rather, it's what keeps the bacteria that keeps
them going, going.

I MALO IZ SREDINE:

***
I'm pretty sure the guy who built the tower is crazy. At the very
least he is amazingly skilled at being a pain in the ass. Used to be
there were these little public gardens all over Alphabet City, a
bunch of empty lots that people in the neighborhood split up into
tiny plots for their flowers or vegetables or whatever. Nice if
you're into that kind of thing. So these gardens were on land
owned by the city, but Alphabet City was just a pit full of spics,
niggers, junkies, queers, squatters, gangbangers and artists, so
who gave a fuck. Then came the real estate boom. Pretty soon the
city sells off all these lots and the gardens are paved over and another
couple dozen yuppies have new condos. And once again,
who really gives a fuck. But this garden on B is still there and so
is the tower and the nut job who built it.
When they set up this garden they split it up into the tiny
plots and everybody started growing geraniums and basil. Except
this one guy was a sculptor and he didn't want to grow things on
his plot, he wanted to build things. Pretty soon his little area is
spilling tools and wood and mess all over the place and the gardeners
are all getting pissed and want to lick him out. People are
starting to threaten lawsuits and everything. Then they hit on a
pretty reasonable compromise. They agreed that anyone who has
a plot can do anything they want in that plot, as long as it doesn't
reach anywhere outside of the plot. Everybody shakes on it. And
then the crazy fucker builds the tower.
It's about six stories tall, made mostly out of wood, and looks
kind of like the dilapidated skeleton of a very skinny pyramid.
And wedged into every crack and hanging off of every plank and
board, nailed to and dangling from every square foot of its surface,
is a simply in-fucking-credible collection of crap. Old street
signs, toilet seats, a jumbo model of an airliner, toys of every
shape and size, a kitchen sink, several effigies, flags, and at least
one huge stuffed giraffe. It sits there and looms over the entire
garden, dominating the landscape. The one thing it most definitely
does not do is reach a single inch outside the borders of its
own tiny plot. You got to admire the pain in the ass that built this
thing. As for me, I'm just hoping he built it well, because I'm already
about ten feet up in the damn thing and if that dog jumps
any higher I'm gonna have to go twenty.
It took me just a couple minutes to get over to that garden. No
Leprosy. I walked around the fence for a minute, took the scent
of the air and climbed on over. It's dark in there and the air is
clogged with the rich, growing odors of midsummer, all that loam
and sweet blossoms and bursting fruit and crap. Anyway, it
wreaks havoc with my nose and as I try to sort it out I hear a little
whimpering sound. I edge around a tiny stand of corn into the
shadow of the creaking tower. Up against the wall of one of the
tenements bordering the garden I see a dog snuffling at something
and whining. I step around the corn.
-Hey, Gristle, hey there, boy.
His head whips around at the sound of my voice.
--Easy there, Gristle.
A growl starts up in the back of his throat.
-Let's not have any trouble here, boy. Easy Where's Leprosy,
huh? Where is he, boy?
Why am I asking the dog where Leprosy is? Fuck do 1 know.
Seems like the thing to do. At the sound of Leprosy's name he
starts to whine again and turns back to whatever it is he's interested
in, and I know things are all fucked up.
-What ya got there, boy?
I take a step closer to get a look. Gristle's head snaps back
around and the rest of his body follows. He doesn't growl or bark,
just comes straight at me. I hold the bat out in front of me with
both hands and his jaws clamp down on it instead of my throat. J
hear his teeth crack the wood as he bites down, and his weight
sends me flat on my back. He's on top of me, his teeth planted in
the bat, jerking it back and forth, trying to tear it from me while
he rips at my exposed stomach with his rear claws. I push out
with the bat, forcing his body up into the air. He's got the skinny
part in his mouth and the fucker might just chew right through it
in another second or two. Up in the air, he's lost his leverage and
can't get purchase to claw me. Any time now he'll let go of the
bat so he can take another crack at my neck 1 twist my body
to the left and throw the bat, Gristle and all, to my right. He
skips and slides in the dirt for a few feet. I follow through with
my roll, scramble up to my feet, run three steps, the dog just behind
me, and jump up into the tower with Gristle hanging from
my ankle. I manage to kick him off before he can sever my
Achilles.
And here I am, sitting up in the tower with that dog down
below stalking back and forth, taking the occasional jump at me
and not malting a fucking sound at all.
Me, I'm not what you'd call an animal person. Dogs, cats,
wildebeests, it don't really matter, I don't care for any of them.
But I'll give animals this over people, they just do what comes
natural. Eat when they're hungry, sleep when they're tired, fuck
when they're horny, protect their friends and kill their enemies.
So I don't really want to hurt this dog, which is why I didn't take
batting practice on his head in the first place. But getting down
out of this thing without being chewed on is gonna be some kind
of trick. I take out a cigarette and give it a smoke.
Gristle hasn't forgotten about me by a long shot, but instead of
pacing back and forth just below me he's started covering the
ground between the base of the tower and the thing against
the wall. I pitch the stub of my cigarette and squat on one of the
sturdier-looking pieces of lumber up here. Gristle looks up at me.
'The refracted light from a streetlamp turns his eyes blazing red.
It's a good look for him. He turns to walk back over to the wall. I
jump, land on top of him and wrap him up so that his legs are
pinned beneath our bodies. He twists and writhes and wrenches
his head around and snaps at the side of my face and misses and
latches onto my left shoulder. He digs in. 1 get my hand on his
throat and squeeze. He jerks his head a couple times, his teeth
tearing my skin. I squeeze tighter and he starts to shudder and
shake and finally pops his mouth off my shoulder and keeps it
open wide and tries to breathe. I don't let him. It takes a while to
knock him out, but he's still alive when I get up, and so am I.
Pretty good deal for both of us.
Bruises are starting to form around the holes he put in my
shoulder, but the blood has coagulated. I lift my arm over my
head and stretch it out. It'll do. I pick up the bat and walk over
to the wall to see what Gristle was so interested in. It's an old
T-shirt, used to be kind of gray-green, but now it's mostly red. I
give it a good smell, and you don't have to be much smarter than
dirt to know it's Leprosy's.
In the farthest, darkest corner of the garden, where the walls of
the two buildings that border it to the south and west meet, I can
see an old steel basement trap. It's open. I drop Leprosy's shirt.
I've been spending a little too much time in basements the last
few nights, but hey, it goes with the territory, I choke up on the
bat and head down the stairs.
I'm hit with that generic oily-dirt smell that permeates City
basements. There's garbage down here and moldy cloth and
waterlogged newsprint, and blood. Lots of blood, and it smells
just like Leprosy. I follow the blood.
These East Village tenements have been torn down and rebuilt
so many times that the floor plans of the original builders have
become worthless abstracts. This basement has penetrated far
beyond the property lines of the building above. Many of these
buildings could have had a single owner in the past and for any of
a number of reasons he might have connected the basements
into a single maze. Could have helped to hide a sweatshop, escape
routes from a drug lab or, in a more innocent time, a
spealteasy. Anything. All it means to me is that I'm getting lost
down here. But the smell of Leprosy's blood is getting stronger
ahead of me.
Every so often I pass a loose-fitting door that leads into someone's
laundry room or the storage closet for a bodega and light
froin a feeble bulb leaks out. Rut 1 don't really need that light to
tell me when 1 get to the place where someone must have cut
Leprosy open because I just about slip and fall down in the puddle
of his blood. He's up ahead of me. In the darkness. Alone. I
tuck the bat under my arm, take out the Maglite, twist it on and
shine it into the black room just ahead.
-Hey, fuck face.
He's sprawled on his ass, propped against a half-rotted wood
post in the middle of the room, his arms pulled back and tied to
the post. His chest is covered with dozens of slash marks and the
blood oozes out and pools in his lap. My mouth begins to water. I
take the bat out from under my arm and stay there in the doorway.
--Hey, Lep. You look like shit.
-Yeah, well.
His voice is choked and tight.
-I think I'm coming down with a fucking cold, so maybe that's
why.
-Uh-huh. There anybody in here with you, Lep?
He moves his head around weakly, then turns it toward me
and gives a shaky little smile.
-Looks like it's just me.
I take a step into the room, shine the light into the corners and
crannies. It's empty. I walk over to Leprosy, drop the bat and
kneel down next to him.
-Let's have a look at you.
The cuts on his chest are shallow, put there to inflict pain, not
to kill. I take off my shirt and start tearing it into long strips and
wrapping them around his skinny torso to bind the wounds.
-You might get lucky here, Lep.
-Yeah, lucky fucking me.
-They tell you what they wanted?
--They wanted you, fuck face. They wanted to know about you.
Then they wanted me to make that fucking call, and as soon as I
did they fucked off. So you get all of them?
-Who?
-It was a fucking trap, right? They made me call you and fucking
jumped you, right?
-The only thing that jumped me was your dog.
-Gristle? You best not have hurt my dog, fuck face.
-Your dog is fine, the only thing that got hurt was my shoulder.
-Heh. He got you, huh?
-Fuck off, Lep.
I finish wrapping his chest.
-They get you anywhere else? They break anything?
-One of 'em stuck me in the back of my neck or something.
I take him gently by the shoulders, lean him forward until he's
resting against my body and look at the back of his neck. There's
a bite mark. The edges of it are a sickly greenish white. The bite
of the carrier, just like I found it on the neck of the shambler
chick. He's dead and rotting, and soon he'll be trying to eat me. I
lean him back against the post.
-Looks OK.
-Cool. So you think they'll be waiting for us when we go out? Or
maybe they wanted to get you out of the way so they could bust
into your place?
I shrug.
-Whatever, we'll deal with it.
-You'll deal with it, fucks face. Not my problem. I tear another strip from my now ruined shirt.
-Let me get another look at your neck. I want to keep your head
from falling off.
-Ha fucking ha, fuck face.
I lean him against me again and use the strip of cloth to wipe
the blood away from the hole in the back of his neck.
-You get a look at them, Lep?
-Naw, there was a couple of the fuckers, but it was too dark for
me to see shit.
-Which one did this to your neck?
-Fuck do I know? One had me facedown on the floor, and I was
screaming and shit, and one of them cut my neck with something.
-They ask you anything special?
-Couple questions. Wanted to know what you asked me. About
that chick. What you wanted from me.
-What'd you tell them?
--What the fuck you think I told them? They were cutting my
chest open. I told them fucking everything, which wasn't a fuck
of a lot. Leprosy is no fucking hero, man, not for twenty fucking
dollars.
-Yeah.
-You done patching that thing up or what?
-Just about. Hey, Lep, if your dog was sick, real sick, what
would you do with it?
-What the fuck does that mean? You hurt Gristle, you shit fuck?
He struggles against me weakly and I hold him still.
-Easy, you'll start bleeding again. Naw, the dog is fine, it's like a
puzzle thing, like a joke. If your dog was real sick, what would you
do?
His body is leaning up against mine, his blood staining my undershirt.
His head on my left shoulder, the one his dog chewed,
and I'm looking into a hole chewed in his neck.
-Shit, man, if Gristle was that sick, like in pain kind of sick? I'd
kill him, man, I'd just fucking kill him.
-That's what I figured.
-So what's the punch line, fuck face?
I take his head in my hands, one on the back, the other tucked
under his chin. I lean him back against the crumbling post and do
it while I'm looking him in the eye. It's a bad position, I'm on my
knees with hardly any leverage, but I do it clean and his body
slumps to the floor, head dangling at the end of his broken neck.
It takes me awhile to find my way out of the basement.
Gristle is where I left him. A vicious animal that will try to kill
anything that comes near it once it wakes. I could take him to the
park and see if one of Lep's friends wants him, but they won't. I
could take him to the pound where they'll keep him for a few days
until they see the killer inside him and then put him down. I
could leave him on the street to wake up and wreak havoc until
he's shot by some cop. I could take him home. I could take him
home and care for him until he loves me like he loved Leprosy.
But he won't. He'll be a broken thing without his master. A
wounded monster. I kneel in the dirt. I kill him the same way I
killed Leprosy, the same sharp twist of the neck. Then I drag him
down into the basement, through the warped passageways to the
black room, and I drop him next to his friend. Let them be found,
and let whoever finds them make of it what they will. I'm going
home.
Zombies don't torture people. They don't torture and they don't
interrogate and they don't set traps. Someone is fucking with me.
And my people.
Evie comes by. She sees the blood and I tell her it's not mine before
she can freak out. She makes me take a shower. I want a
bath, but hadn't realized just how much of leprosy's blood I have
on me. She takes my clothes and stuffs them in a plastic sack
while I rinse off, then she runs the tub and we sit in it naked, facing
one another. I tell her Lep is dead, that some guys that have a
beef with me killed him. She doesn't ask questions, just rubs soap
on a washcloth and scrubs my feet.

[angel011]

Hvala.

[Nightflier]

Cemu ocr? Koga zanima, mogu da mu posaljem citavu knjigu (koja nije losa, btw) na mejl.

[milan]

Je li to isti C. Huston koji pise novog Moonknight-a za Marvel Comics?

[---]

Cemu ocr? Koga zanima, mogu da mu posaljem citavu knjigu (koja nije losa, btw) na mejl.

eh, ova danasnja inteleksual properti stiling tehnologija, ccc...

[---]

Je li to isti C. Huston koji pise novog Moonknight-a za Marvel Comics?

yep, to je taj, lola i bećar

[---]

Variety reports:

Phoenix Pictures and Mike De Luca Prods. will team for a feature adaptation of the Charlie Huston vampire novel "Already Dead." Scott Rosenberg will write the script. De Luca will produce with Phoenix's David Thwaites and Brad Fischer. Alissa Phillips will co-produce.

Huston's novel is the first of a five-book series that the producers are eyeing as a potential franchise.

Series revolves around a vampire who happens to be a private detective hired by a Gotham socialite to track down her runaway daughter. The city's vampires are afflicted with a virus that requires them to drink blood, and they run through the city in clans. A new virus that turns victims into carnivorous zombies threatens to upset the balance between humans and vampires.

Huston's second novel in the series, "No Dominion," was just published.

Rosenberg, best known for script work that includes "Beautiful Girls" and "Con Air," just completed a new version of "The Dirty Dozen" for Warner Bros.

De Luca, who helped launch the "Blade" series as prexy of New Line, most recently was a producer of "Ghost Rider." He has just begun production on the Robert Luketic-directed "21" for Columbia Pictures.

Phoenix has five films set to hit screens this year. First up is the Paramount and Warner Bros. release of the David Fincher-directed "Zodiac" on March 2.