four heartbeats in this room, each one pumping the stink of adrenaline into the air like a fog machine.
Ernie pulls back on the door and shears it from its hinges. Without pausing he runs from room to room, a wraith, a blur of fury. The shocked faces of the men are priceless. Ernie grabs the two near the door and smashes them head first into the wall, knocking them out. He turns to the man in the living room, who reaches for the gun on the makeshift coffee table, still in pain from his already broken wrist. Before he has time to take his first step, Ernie is on top of him. He shoves the palm of his hand into the center of his back. Vertebrae crumble under the force of the impact. The man collapses, spitting blood onto the floor.
Ernie turns toward the bathroom where the last banger is still located. The toilet flushes, and he walks out mid statement.
--I was like, well, trouble wanted you, some cold-ass John McClane shit…
The boy sees Ernie and falls back against the wall. Ernie watches as he takes in the scene in the apartment, the silent carnage that happened in moments. Ernie can begin to taste the metallic flavor of blood as bleeding lesions start to form inside his mouth. His mind and mouth salivate. He doesn’t have much time. He shoves the man against the wall, then with one hand whips his body onto the ground and straddles his chest, placing one knee on his arm and his other knee on the man’s throat. He quickly fumbles through his back pocket and pulls out his works. A shit needle he has used far too many times.
--You got something I need. You don’t mind though, right?
His voice rumbles and crackles. Blood drips from his lips on to the boy’s face and chest. Ernie finds a vein on the boy and draws out a full needle’s worth of deep red. Ernie’s nails shred through the skin of the boy’s arm as he holds it steady. The boy’s pulse thumps through his head like a drum, its terrified adrenaline-filled beat pushing Ernie to drink deeply.
Ernie fights it using all his strength and personal resolve. He lines up his own vein and pushes the needle into his arm. As the first drops enter his bloodstream, his body convulses and cramps in a mix of pure agony and ecstasy. This is not the bliss he has felt before, it is stronger and more potent—it is not only pleasure, it is pain.
Ernie slumps over, awash in this painful joy. So much so that he does not notice when the boy pushes him off and on to the floor. He does not notice when the boy runs out and into the night, covered in Ernie’s blood. Ernie remains there, unable to move, the Virus finally pacified by blood.
***
When Ernie finally comes to, Claude is crouched over him, pulling what remains of the needle from Ernie’s arm. Apparently in Ernie’s haste he crushed the syringe in his hand as he shot up, leaving the shattered remains stuck in his arm as the bliss put him on the nod.
Ernie’s return from the bliss is jarring. He falls into reality as if dropped in ice water while in the midst of a dream. He sits up with a gasp, his mind bombarded with senses a hundred times stronger than before, his muscles and senses screaming.
--I told you, you needed to take your treatment. The fuck are you thinking?
--Stop it. Stop shouting.
--I’m not, you asshole.
The room is alive with sounds and smells, waves of synesthesia, crashing on him with overwhelming sensory input and emotion. He can smell cooking food at the end of the complex, rotting trash from the dumpster a block down, hear television programs, crying babies and whispered phone calls. He can see dust glinting off the moonlight cutting in through the window, smell the mold and mildew and cocaine particles in the carpet, the dog piss stains from the previous tenant.
Time has almost stopped; it has no meaning. Each second that passes sends a lifetime of sensory input.
It is almost crippling…
Almost.
Ernie takes a deep breath, tries to get ahead of his senses, shut them out from his mind.
Ernie pulls back on the door and shears it from its hinges. Without pausing he runs from room to room, a wraith, a blur of fury. The shocked faces of the men are priceless. Ernie grabs the two near the door and smashes them head first into the wall, knocking them out. He turns to the man in the living room, who reaches for the gun on the makeshift coffee table, still in pain from his already broken wrist. Before he has time to take his first step, Ernie is on top of him. He shoves the palm of his hand into the center of his back. Vertebrae crumble under the force of the impact. The man collapses, spitting blood onto the floor.
Ernie turns toward the bathroom where the last banger is still located. The toilet flushes, and he walks out mid statement.
--I was like, well, trouble wanted you, some cold-ass John McClane shit…
The boy sees Ernie and falls back against the wall. Ernie watches as he takes in the scene in the apartment, the silent carnage that happened in moments. Ernie can begin to taste the metallic flavor of blood as bleeding lesions start to form inside his mouth. His mind and mouth salivate. He doesn’t have much time. He shoves the man against the wall, then with one hand whips his body onto the ground and straddles his chest, placing one knee on his arm and his other knee on the man’s throat. He quickly fumbles through his back pocket and pulls out his works. A shit needle he has used far too many times.
--You got something I need. You don’t mind though, right?
His voice rumbles and crackles. Blood drips from his lips on to the boy’s face and chest. Ernie finds a vein on the boy and draws out a full needle’s worth of deep red. Ernie’s nails shred through the skin of the boy’s arm as he holds it steady. The boy’s pulse thumps through his head like a drum, its terrified adrenaline-filled beat pushing Ernie to drink deeply.
Ernie fights it using all his strength and personal resolve. He lines up his own vein and pushes the needle into his arm. As the first drops enter his bloodstream, his body convulses and cramps in a mix of pure agony and ecstasy. This is not the bliss he has felt before, it is stronger and more potent—it is not only pleasure, it is pain.
Ernie slumps over, awash in this painful joy. So much so that he does not notice when the boy pushes him off and on to the floor. He does not notice when the boy runs out and into the night, covered in Ernie’s blood. Ernie remains there, unable to move, the Virus finally pacified by blood.
***
When Ernie finally comes to, Claude is crouched over him, pulling what remains of the needle from Ernie’s arm. Apparently in Ernie’s haste he crushed the syringe in his hand as he shot up, leaving the shattered remains stuck in his arm as the bliss put him on the nod.
Ernie’s return from the bliss is jarring. He falls into reality as if dropped in ice water while in the midst of a dream. He sits up with a gasp, his mind bombarded with senses a hundred times stronger than before, his muscles and senses screaming.
--I told you, you needed to take your treatment. The fuck are you thinking?
--Stop it. Stop shouting.
--I’m not, you asshole.
The room is alive with sounds and smells, waves of synesthesia, crashing on him with overwhelming sensory input and emotion. He can smell cooking food at the end of the complex, rotting trash from the dumpster a block down, hear television programs, crying babies and whispered phone calls. He can see dust glinting off the moonlight cutting in through the window, smell the mold and mildew and cocaine particles in the carpet, the dog piss stains from the previous tenant.
Time has almost stopped; it has no meaning. Each second that passes sends a lifetime of sensory input.
It is almost crippling…
Almost.
Ernie takes a deep breath, tries to get ahead of his senses, shut them out from his mind.
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