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     “What?” Scud said irritably, hopping down from the van and planting himself in front of her. She refused to look at him. His smell offended her. “What.” He repeated louder when she didn’t respond. She was truly beginning to irritate him. “See somethin’ you like, sweetheart?” he shifted his weight onto the foot with the blinking light, his glare intensifying as he dipped his head, trying to find her eyes beneath the hair that fell in front of them. He was going to grab her arm and shake her if she didn’t acknowledge him. Not that it was any of her business.

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“I don’t think I’ll be of any use to you,” she said lazily, sinking deeper in to her chair.

      “We’ll see…” They sat in silence for a few minutes before Whistler piped up, “I’ve gotta ask you a few questions. There’s not many… but please answer them to the best of your abilities and we’ll be done before nightfall.”

      She swallowed again; she realized then that this was a reaction to the detox and sat straight… It was so obvious. Why hadn’t she noticed before? It was almost laughable, and she wanted to hear him say it. “Can I ask something myself, first?”

      Whistler huffed and looked behind him at Scud, who shrugged condescendingly; if he was going to threaten him with a loaded gun and tell him that he had no voice here, he wasn’t going to offer his opinion when asked. He was still strong on the idea of having Blade here. Then they would be done before nightfall. Fuck Whistler. He was going to enjoy laughing at him when the girl gave him trouble. The old man turned tiredly back to her and said, “Fine. Go ahead.”

      “What was the detox for? Since you’ve just given me free speech, I’d like to know your intentions before I decide if I should lie to you.” In the dark shade of the kitchen counter, Scud’s eyebrows rose up to his scalp in amusement; this was going to be fun.

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Late

      Alison touched her thumb to the one square in the photo booth strip of her and Paul locked together by the lips with her hands on his glasses. She twirls it like a ballerina over and over between callused fingers painted black, and glares up at him from under watermelon bangs as he’s pulling on a tank top, “So who are you today? Are you Julian Plenti? Or are you Paul?” He stops dead with his arms over his head, the tank top in bunches around his waist like an inner tube. He turns to her, eyes slanted and mean. “What the hell are you going on about?”

      She gives him a shrug. “I don’t know…”

      Paul dashes towards her, his hand snatches her chin in a painful grip and he lifts her face to level with his. She makes no noise, no frightened gasp or sound of pain. It drives him mad but he manages to bring some calm to his voice as he brushes his nose over her cheek, too embarrassed to stare into those brown eyes for a second longer. Please don’t think of Jamie. Please, anyone but Jamie Look – I’m here. What about me? “I am whoever you think I am.”

      Alison laughs and slaps him away, pulling her lips into a grin as she watches the hurt wash over his pale, filthy face in the dim amber light of her bedroom. He’s been practicing this moment – probably in front of the mirror after masturbating, for a long time now, and she is utterly indifferent in ruining it for him. She watches him fumble with his hands, with his mouth, with straightening his glasses on his face (maybe if I can make myself look nice she will let me try again), but he knows that the moment is gone. It won’t come back. It makes her frown. “Paul…” she tries sympathetically, reaching out a hand to bring him back. He looks at it like a dangerous animal, like something that will snap out at him and bite and leave behind a bruise or poison, but her eyes, those brown eyes, are enough to make his feet move, and he returns to the bed, returns to her side, and soon their mouths are locked again, back where they belong as he takes her back under the covers into the dark. 

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Alison loved Daniel because of his gentleness, in a way that Paul’s iciness would never allow. He would sit there and smoke, his eyes growing darker and rimmed, even without the rimmed glasses, dirty blonde hair a rumpled mess, and stare knives into her throat because Jamie’s eyes were always there. Meanwhile Daniel would sit, his legs crossed and that candy cane tie burrowed carefully in his suit jacket, and stare love into her. Well, not love, but affection. The older brother only without the mud and wrestling and the fights. And Alison would stare back, eyes filled with their own love, and Paul would sneer, stub out his cigarette into his hand, and stand to excuse himself, hat in place on his head.

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Scud cleared his throat three or more times than necessary; he was still sore from the choking he received from Whistler and wasn’t confident if his voice would work. The dark-skinned man was repeatedly tracing a skilled, slender finger along the girl’s jawline as if that would answer his question. “B-man, she doesn’t have any bite marks, I checked - “ Blade tore an obnoxious red-orange ribbon from her neck and cast it aside with the rest of her things, a jacket among them; she had been close to naked before the young man decided to finally open his mouth.

      He’d checked every inch of her that he could: around the armpits, her thighs, between her toes, around her pelvic area… all the places the suckheads usually hid them… but he could find no bites. In anger he stood and rounded on Scud, who cowered beneath him.

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She could feel the hot lead between her shoulder blades and winced, preparing herself for the blow.

      “I wouldn’t try to leave if I were you,” Whistler said, his voice dry and strong. It worried her. She wanted to know if he’d really fire. “Not until we’re satisfied… sit down.” He stood from his seat and walked to her end of the table. He clamped a hand around a rung on her chair and slammed it back out, the gun never leaving her form. Scud lifted himself from the counter and walked past them, leaving the smell of marijuana and tobacco in his wake. “And just where do you think you’re going?” Whistler said loudly, eyes trained on the girl like a hound. Scud swung his arms like a child, “I’m going to go and get B.”

      “Blade doesn’t want a single fucking thing to do with her, Scud! He told you that last night, and he said it again this morning! Stop trying to get other people to fix your problems for you and be a man!”

      “She’s not gonna fucking listen to us! You heard her! B would be able to put the fear of God inta her! Scare her in to telling us!”

      “Sit down before I fill you with holes.” Whistler’s voice lowered to a quiet growl. He fought an incredible urge to swing the barrel to him instead. There was a silencer on the end, not that they needed it because the warehouse was in the middle of nowhere, and he wasbegging for the longest time to put an end to the pitiful rat’s existence. Scud sighed in defeat, accepting that he didn’t have a voice in the matter. He lowered his head to his chest; trying to hide the blush growing in his cheeks and reached out his hand in a civil, last-minute gesture to the girl’s to take her back… she snapped away from him when his fingers grazed her, vein throbbing in her neck as she threw him her worst glare. With as much dignity as he could muster, Scud turned away and resumed his place at the counter.

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Ignoring all of her aching limbs she sprung up on one foot and tottered behind a large waste bin just as the thundering footsteps and frantic, masculine shouts closed in.

      What sounded like dog-tired pants from a younger male, “I’m tellin’ ya the truth, Whistler.” Though her vision was obscured, the young woman knew his hands were rested on his knees, desperate for support. “She’s here. You heard it too, I KNOW you did – “

      “Don’t you – “ a much older, gruff male stepped forward and the woman heard a foot scuffle. Most likely the older shoved a finger in to his chest, knocking him slightly off balance. “Don’t you dare try to tell me what I heard you worthless shit.” The silence that followed was deafening. The young woman dared not move as their feet continued to shift.

      “I heard it…” the younger male began softly, what sounded like long pants sweeping the floor as he strode closer to her bin, “right… here.”

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People were shouting while she slept; angry, but quiet shouts that broke through the haze of her delirium and brought her back. Her eyes flitted, opening easier this time than before, but wouldn’t move; the voices came from right in front of her.

      “I told ya, Whistler, we should have put cameras back there, but NOOO no one wants to listen to Scud!”

      “And why the hell should we listen to you, you dumb fuck? All the shit you put us through and now we got another problem to deal with. You just can’t leave well enough alone…”

      “What was I supposed to do, Dubya? Just leave her there? They only woulda made her in to another suck-head if I did…”

      “With the way you told your story last night, they tried to kill her, not infect her.” Self-conscious foot shifting told her it was the young man. “And I told you not to use the shovel. I thought you’d killed her, there.”

      The woman coughed before she could stop herself. Her chest snapped up and fell again repeatedly as she went in to a fit. Both men turned their heads to her, but neither stepped forward to help; with all the damage they’d already done, touching her and trying to help her sit straight would only make her start screaming. They waited until she was done, and tossed her head forward.

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“Yo B, B-MAN!” the young man screamed for the thousandth time, flipping greasy, dark brown hair out of his eyes as he dragged the unconscious woman in his arms deeper and deeper into the dark warehouse. The sweat running down the back of his neck increased in liters, as did his impatience in finding any form of life as he stumbled along. The young woman beneath him grunted only once before dropping her face to her chest. He needed to have her looked at, and quickly; this was not something that he could do on his own.

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