Every Last Drop by Charlie Huston Page A

in anyone who wanted to join, supply them with blood, and then make the cure available to them once I find it.
She points at the twin flat-screen computer monitors on her desk, the piles of paper. —But it is so another thing to actually be doing it.
She flops back in her leather office chair and kicks her heel against the floor, spinning slow and lazy.
—Don't misunderstand, I do not have any regrets. I'm young, I have the energy, God knows I'm smart enough to handle it all, but III totally fess that it's way harder than I expected it to be.
She stops spinning, launches herself from the chair and begins circling the desk, plucking papers at random.
—I completely miscalculated demand. I mean, the numbers are way out of whack. There's only a few thousand infected on Manhattan, right? The ones aligned with Clans, why would they take a risk, move over to us? We assumed
mostly wed get Rogues. How many could that be? With a food source strictly limited by the land available, its just common sense that predators not operating with a pack are going to get squeezed out. So we assumed a couple dozen Rogues, at most, a like amount of crossovers from the Clans, people willing to take that chance because they were committed to the idea of a cure, and some refugees who got the word and managed to make it over to the Island.
She shakes one of the papers.
—At this point, in our first year, we were assuming a max membership of eighty. We prepped for one hundred. Just to be safe.
She crumples the paper and throws it on the Persian rug underfoot. —Two-hundred and sixty-one.
She shakes her head.
—I mean. Holy shit. The renovations. The initial renovations were hard enough. But you buy a building, grease the right palms, bribe the tight asses on the neighborhood committee and get to work. Once the materials start moving in and out, the people on the street have no idea what you're actually doing inside. The rooms were so nice. We really went the extra mile. No Pottery Barn or IKEA crap, really nice beds, furnishings. Tried to give each room a character. Like a boutique hotel. That's what the builders thought we were
doing.
She goes to the door, opens it and points at her outer office. —Now? Did you see it? In the halls. On the stairs. How do we bring a crew in here to tear out the walls and turn the second and third floors into the barracks we need? How do I take delivery on a hundred bunk beds? Like no one is going to notice and ask what the hell is going on. Little things. The elevator. I cant get a repair service in because I don't have room to hide all these people. A building this size, things are constantly breaking, wearing out. Were taxing the plumbing like you wouldn't believe. The longer these things go without maintenance, the worse everything gets.
She throws the papers in the air, stands there as they snow around her. —And food, just regular food, were sneaking it in. So the neighbors don't know how many are here. I mean, the FreshDirect truck cant be rolling up every day and unloading enough groceries for a cafeteria, can it? I mean. My God. Jesus. Shit.
She sighs, looks at me, smiles.
—Listen to me. I mean, could I sound a little more like my dad? He d come home from work, it d be just like this. The lab or the office or both, something was always blowing up. All he wanted to do was be up to his eyes in research, but it was always patent this or government oversight that or board of directors
are cock-suckers.
She rubs her forehead.
—And that's what really kills. Not being in the lab. I mean, I know I have responsibilities here, and I took all this on and I have to deal, but it's not even what I want to be doing. I mean.
She drops her head back and opens her mouth wide. —Gaaahhh.
She rolls her eyes.
—This stuff is so boring. And I mean, the whole point is a cure, right? I mean, that's why these people are packing in here, right? I mean, why name the Clan Clan Cure if I never get to work on it?
She leans