Chapter 8

The highway wavered, uncertain, in the afternoon heat, giving the illusion that the horizon had been submerged. Poison was heading east again, which even now he did frequently, though no longer with any hope of making progress.

Three times now, Poison had brought them within sight of the Firebreak – the heavily fortified, heavily guarded no-man's land that ringed the outer perimeter of the Zones – and three times he had turned away, easing the Trans Am off the main highway and onto one of the dusty access roads that doubled back or snaked away into the desert. Ghoul did not complain or question this, though he had always taken very seriously Poison's promise to lead them far away. He knew that Poison took it seriously too, but he hesitated. And Ghoul had, by now, guessed the truth: Poison was afraid.

Not afraid of chancing the Firebreak, the innumerable remote drones and SCARECROW patrols that stood guard over it. Those things did not frighten him, and they did not frighten Ghoul either, so long as he didn't think too hard about them. It was what lay beyond the last security checkpoint, the final coil of barbed wire on the Sheriff Joe Arpaio Memorial Border Crossing that held them back. Ray had realized the monstrous truth of it first, but Poison had not taken long to catch on: they could hope for nothing outside of the Zones. Three undocumented fugitives would not find anything waiting for them in the free flyover cities, amongst those people who had troubles of their own, and who knew nothing of Battery City save what Better Living's brilliant PR department chose to show them.

When Ghoul and Poison had still been staying at The Killjoy, Dr. Death had told them about something that had happened in prison. He almost never talked about the time he had spent there unless he was especially hammered, and even into this story he had not allowed the personal pronoun to enter. He had begun with, "one time…" as if it had all happened to someone else.

He had said that, in Alameda Street Jail, there had been three environmental activists. They'd been handcuffing themselves to trees and scuttling whaling vessels since long before the troubles started, and so they had achieved a kind of celebrity amongst people who were into that kind of thing. But they had been critical of Better Living's business practices, the gallons of toxic sludge they had used to smother the flames during the Great Fire, and their protests had earned them all ten year sentences, without hope of parole.

Their friends – the celebrities who had done photo ops with them and given donations and attended their charity events – managed to get the word out. It was all over Twitter for a couple of days, Dr. Death had said with gravitas. Better Living enacted damage control. They grabbed the three environmentalists out of Alameda and rushed them off to the low-security facility in the foothills. There, they stuffed them full of cheap carbs to take the emaciated edges off their faces, and they called in a make-up artist to take care of the rest. They coached them in what to say, and they warned them to keep the story straight or have a second prison term added on to the one they were already serving. Then they sat them down in front of computers, in cells that had been done up to resemble middleclass condos, and they made them record.

Smiling into the cameras, those three devoted revolutionaries had told everyone how shocked they were by what was being said about them. They had felt compelled to set the record straight. True, they hadn't been as active in the movement lately, but they were preoccupied with their careers and their families. They kept the videos short – Better Living had warned them not to bore people by going over five minutes – and not one of them stepped out of line.

There was nothing anyone could do. Retractions of the original story were made. Requests for interviews were met with polite offers to conduct them via email. This, of course, was so that they could be monitored by Better Living handlers. A lot of people claimed that they had known it was nothing all along.

Naturally, Dr. Death had said, they all got second terms anyway. And then he had exploded into laughter, as if he had just told the long awaited punchline to a joke.

Poison had not laughed. He'd just sat there in stiff, offended dignity, wooden-faced and unreadable. But he'd been listening then, Ghoul knew, and that was why he hadn't yet attempted to go up directly against any of the countless tentacles of his father's vast empire.

For now, he kept to the backroads and bided his time. Waiting for a sign, a portent, for something to happen. And then, when something finally did, it was so abrupt that none of them quite knew what to do.

Poison eased his foot off the accelerator. Ghoul, who had been staring out the window, watching the scorched monotony of the wasteland without really seeing it, was slow to notice.

"What's going on?" Ray said. "Why are you slowing down?"

"Someone's behind us," Poison said. His gaze strayed to the rearview mirror. The needle on the speedometer kept dropping, dropping. Down past 65, past 50, to 45 where Poison held it steady with a delicate touch. It seemed an intolerable crawl.

Ghoul turned in his seat to look out the back window. The car behind them shivered in the heat on the highway, blurring into an indistinct smudge against the blacktop. It fell out of sight behind a hill, appeared again. Definitely making up the ground.

"Who are they?" Ghoul said.

Poison glanced at him, his gray eyes clouding momentarily with irritated contempt. "I have no way of knowing."

Chastised, Ghoul sank back. The car came steadily on, and by now he could make out that it was a late-90's Toyota coup. Gold once, but scraped and faded down to the primer in most places. As it came up behind them, it flashed its high beams.

Poison tapped the brakes and began to pull over. Ghoul fumbled with the clasp on his holster, jerking the pistol free gracelessly.

"Take it easy," Poison said. And then, mercifully, he added, "Both of you."

The Toyota followed them over onto the shoulder with the whine of worn-out brakes. The exhaust trailed a plume of bluish smoke. Poison cut the engine and slid out into the blistering desert heat. Ghoul scrambled after him, and Ray followed. They kept back by the car, watching the Toyota, though they could see nothing through the tinted windows.

After what seemed a long time, the doors opened. Only a fraction of an inch, as if whoever was inside the Toyota could barely muster the strength to swing them outward.

Two men and a woman climbed out. They might have been young – younger even than Poison and Ghoul – but it was impossible to tell their true ages. None of them had sunglasses, and the whites of their eyes were red and desiccated with sunburn. The dirt on their faces was streaked with tracks from damaged and leaking tear ducts.

Poison stepped forward. Ghoul, sensing that he had a function to perform in this ritual, stayed back by the car, his hand on his pistol, Secret Service or a Royal Guard.

After a moment, the woman who had been in the Toyota came forward to meet him. Her posture was crooked, her hair a filthy cloud around her head; her clothes were in rags, and through the gaping holes in the material, Ghoul could see that her skin was pitted with sores. On her sunken cheeks, she had drawn three symmetrical lines in black ash.

"We're unarmed," she said. One of her front teeth was missing, and the one beside it was so black and sorry looking that it seemed it would soon follow. "Our batteries went dead a long time ago. We're hungry. We haven't had anything in days. Can you spare some food?"

Poison was silent for a long time. He wore his aviators, obscuring his expression, but Ghoul knew that the look in his eyes was hard, pitiless, metallic, and calculating.

"Do you have anything to trade?" he said at last.

"Some motor oil. It's 40-weight."

"Any gasoline?"

"We're running on fumes as it is."

Poison's lips tightened into something that looked like a smile. "I don't think that will get you much."

Ray stepped forward and grabbed Poison by the shoulder. Back by the Toyota, one of the men, who had been keeping careful watch, fumbled a crowbar out of the backseat of the car. Ghoul didn't miss that; he had his pistol out and trained before the stranger could take a step.

But Ray didn't seem to notice any of this. He bent close to Poison's ear, and whispered to him harshly, a lecture which Poison heard out with bored indifference.

"We'll take anything you're willing to give us," the woman said. "We don't want any trouble."

Poison reached up, and with a flick of his wrist he batted Ray's hand off his shoulder. "Then have your dogs get back in the car. Bring me what you have. Ghoul will escort you."

Ghoul straightened up. He wasn't sure what Poison was trying to do – it was clear that these three fugitives could put up no resistance, were no threat to them – but he followed the woman obediently and without complaint around to the back of the Toyota. She unlocked the trunk, struggling beneath its weight as she lifted it. Inside, there was an accumulation of trash: torn canvas tarps, dead batteries, a radio with its mechanical guts spilling out.

As she dug through the garbage, Ghoul shifted uncomfortably. He sheathed his pistol; it seemed pointless and cruel to have it out. "I'm sorry about him. He's not usually like that…"

"Never mind," she said. "It doesn't matter. Your name is Ghoul, right? I've heard of you."

"I don't think so—" he started to say.

"You're not at all like I imagined you'd be."

"You must have me mistaken for someone else."

"Fine," she said. "Have it your way."

From the depths of the trunk, she extracted the plastic bottle of motor oil. It was streaked with filth, gritty with dust. Before she could pull away, Ghoul caught hold of her wrist. She looked up at him, startled, and he immediately released her. There had been an unpleasant coldness to her skin, and he had felt each tiny bone and tendon shifting beneath his hand.

"Listen," he said. "How long have you been out here?"

"Two years," she said.

"That's it?" Ghoul said. "I mean… it's not that long. Is this… all of this… normal?"

Slowly, dreamily, she raised her hand to her mouth and chewed on her thumbnail, which had already been bitten down to blood. "You really must be new out here. That's so weird. I could have sworn… I guess it doesn't matter. You'll figure things out soon enough. Maybe."

Ghoul didn't know what to say. He turned the bottle of motor oil over in his hands. "Thanks for this," he muttered, and headed back to the Trans Am. Poison was waiting for him. He tossed the motor oil in the trunk without looking at it, and thrust a sack into the woman's hands.

"Thanks," she said. "We're really grateful."

"You ought to be," Poison said. "It's pure charity."

He looked at Ghoul, sweeping his gaze over him as if to check every part of him for injury or malice. "Let's go," he said quietly.

Poison slid in behind the wheel, gunned the engine and put his foot down heavy on the pedal. A fan of gravel arched from beneath the tires, spattering the hood of the Toyota. Poison did not look back. His eyes never once stirred to the rearview mirror.

He got back on the main highway and headed east.

That evening, when they had not come across a place to spend the night by the time full dark came on, Poison eased the Trans Am down the incline into a dry creekbed where it was hidden from the road. It was not the first time they had slept out in the open, and by now they had a system in place. They played two rounds of rock-paper-scissors to see who would take the first watch. Ghoul's number came up, and so he stayed behind with the car while Poison and Ray went to scavenge firewood.

The temperature dropped off quickly now that the sun was down, and Ghoul crawled into the backseat to wait. As he hugged himself against the dry desert chill, his head fell back against the seat and his eyes drifted shut. He knew that Poison would be furious if he came back and found him asleep at his post, but Ghoul had long ago accepted that there were some things Poison could not understand. Simple things like weakness and frailty and exhaustion, which simply did not seem to apply to him.

But that was stupid. Because if Poison did not feel such things, or even not quite feel them, then what else could he possibly feel instead?

It was not a question that needed an answer, or even was supposed to have one. As Ghoul dozed in the back of the Trans Am, thinking this over in a confused half-sleeping way, headlights came up the dirt road toward him. It took Ghoul a long time to realize it, a long time to connect the sound of an engine mixed with the wind with the actuality of an approaching vehicle. When he finally did, his eyes snapped open. He stumbled out of the backseat, just in time to see the car fly past, a howling phantom doing 60 or 70.

The car did not slow. In its wake, the air filled with a cloud of red dust, in which two red tail lights rapidly floated out of sight.

Ghoul leaned against the car, his arms folded on the roof and his head resting on them. He slipped a hand absently under his coat, touching the holster that hung from his shoulder. His heart was pounding and he felt a strange current of unease moving through him. It was nothing, he told himself. He had been awakened suddenly, and that was all. But when a hand came down on his shoulder, he jumped.

"It's only me," Poison said. His brows drew together, making an ugly crease appear in the center of his forehead. "What's wrong?"

"Someone was here," Ghoul said.

"Where?"

Ghoul waved vaguely towards where the tail lights had disappeared.

"Did they see you?" Poison said.

"I don't think so. If they did, they didn't care." Ghoul paused. "I don't think it's anything."

"I'm sure it's not. But I think we should move elsewhere."

"No," Ghoul said. "No, it's fine. I'm sure it's fine. You just feel, you know, weird. After today. I feel weird too. That girl… did you catch her name?"

"No," Poison said.

"She told me they'd only been out here two years. Two years, and they looked like that. I think they were dying or something."

"I think they might die soon," Poison said. "Yes."

"Doesn't that freak you out? We should have done something. I wish I'd—"

"If you wanted to help people you would still be back with your little terrorist cell," Poison said sharply. "Wasn't that what you were doing? Breaking your back taking care of everyone who would not take care of themselves. Who did not want your care, and who, in fact, hated you for trying to give it. But you aren't like them. You are like me, and you can look after yourself. If you couldn't, then you would never have kissed me, never have taken the key to those handcuffs, never have done anything that you have done."

Ghoul shuddered. "Don't say that. You don't know anything about them…"

"I know that if they had been smarter, or stronger, or more resourceful they wouldn't be in the trouble they're in. You said the exact same thing, when he asked to join us. You said there was something about him, and that was why he deserved to live…"

"I didn't say that!" Ghoul had thought his voice was going to come out in a shout, and he was surprised when he couldn't manage more than a rough whisper. "Just stop it… stop talking…"

And, mercifully, Poison did, when a soft sound came from the darkness at the bottom of the streambed behind him.

"Sorry to interrupt," Ray said. He was crouched down in the windbreak formed by a tangle of cottonwoods, over a carefully constructed tripod of firewood. "Can I use your lighter?"

Poison straightened up, turning away. He tossed the lighter over, and Ghoul sagged weakly back against the car. He watched them start the fire, watched them move about it like shades, kicking rocks aside and tamping down the grass where they were going to sleep. They no longer seemed like the men he knew, but instead like strange and gaudy characters who had appeared before him on a screen.

After a while, Ghoul realized he was cold and he came over beside the fire. He was aware of Poison watching him, but he was resolved not to look in his direction. It turned out to be easier than he'd thought it would be. He heated a can of food from their dwindling supplies in the coals and ate it without tasting anything. When he was finished, Poison, who had clearly been waiting, stood up and motioned to him silently.

Ghoul pretended not to see, and then, when he realized he couldn't keep it up, he looked toward Ray for salvation. Ray only motioned with his head, giving him leave to go. Ghoul sighed, and got to his feet. He followed Poison down the creekbed, only fifty yards or so. The fire was still in sight, but they were well out of the halo of light that it cast.

"I'm sorry," Poison said.

"Yeah?" Ghoul felt himself weakening, like he always did when Poison offered him one of his plain and unadorned apologies, but this time he resisted it. "Good. I kind of think you should be."

Poison turned to look at him. In the darkness, Ghoul could make out nothing of his expression, but he felt that Poison could see him perfectly. "Did I… insult you?" he said. It was a wild guess; a shot in the dark.

"Maybe a little," Ghoul admitted. "But it wasn't—"

"I thought I understood who you were."

"Well, I thought I understood who you were too." That had sounded stupid. Ghoul laughed weakly at himself. His night vision was starting to kick in, and he could see the sharply-delineated line where Poison's dark collar broke off and his white throat began. He reached up suddenly, cupping the pale quarter moon of Poison's jaw, slipping his fingers under his hair.

"Anyway," he said quietly. "It's not about me. Or… about anyone, really. But those things you said, it wasn't you. It was like it was your father saying them. I didn't like it."

While he spoke, his thumb had moved back along Poison's cheek, had found the hinge of his jaw, his earlobe. Had found, without forethought or planning and by touch alone, the small tattoo, the barcode, that was concealed there. It was that spot that he was stroking now, and in that instant they both realized it.

Poison jerked away from him. Ghoul withdrew his hand as if he had been stung.

"Don't," Poison said. "Please, don't. You can say anything you like to me, but not that."

"You're not him, you know."

"I am him," Poison whispered. "I am his genetic material. I'm his son. I am him, right down to the cells. They were his in whole before they were mine, and I have them only second-hand…"

"Gerard," Ghoul said sharply. He had hoped the name would have an effect, and it did. Poison flinched, but then lowered his head as if awaiting punishment. "You're not him, so quit worrying about it."

He reached out and took Poison's hand. It felt cool in his. "No one knows where you came from. Out here, no one even cares."

"You know," Poison said. "You care." His eyes flicked up, and for a split-second Ghoul thought that he detected a hint of spite in them. But no, it must have been his imagination.

"I guess I do," Ghoul admitted. "I can't just forget. What do you want me to do instead?"

"Let me forget," Poison said instantly. "Never call me that other name again."

Ghoul sighed. "All right. Whatever you want, Poison. Poison, Poison, Poison, Poison, Poison." He laughed abruptly. "When you say it too many times, it doesn't even sound like a name at all anymore."

"Good," Poison said. Ghoul did not know that he was going to kiss him until Poison had already leaned in and done it.

Ghoul's heart went into his throat. His hands pawed blindly at the front of Poison's jacket, slipping over the unyielding leather, until at last they encountered his collar and there they clung tight. Poison backed him into the shadows of a cottonwood hollow, until Ghoul was pressed up against one of the smooth sturdy trunks. A bouquet of hanging catkins burst beneath the weight of his body, flooding the night with the smell of pollen.

"You don't…" Ghoul panted when Poison had finally released his mouth. "You don't…"

"I want to," Poison said. "Can't I still want you?"

His mouth descended onto Ghoul's throat, and Ghoul felt the hot liquidity of his breath, the sharp insistent edges of his teeth. His fingers convulsed, digging into Poison's shoulders. "Yes…"

As Poison fumbled with their belts, Ghoul did his best to stay out of his way. Poison knew what he liked, how he wanted things done, and if Ghoul interfered with that he would only complicate the matter. He had never been fucked the way Poison fucked him; after Poison was gone, he never would be again. Ghoul had accepted all of this without sentimentality or emotion, just the way things ought to be.

Poison slid to his knees, and when he bent his head forward his hair fell over his face, hiding it. Ghoul could feel the ragged edges brushing the insides of his thighs as Poison leaned in press his lips to the head of his cock. Ghoul shuddered, pressing the heel of one hand against his mouth to stifle a moan. Poison did not hurry – he had never hurried this – and his tongue made a slow circle around Ghoul's cock. The hand that was curled around the base revolving in practiced turns.

His other hand was down between his legs. He was stroking himself, slowly at first but then with increasing urgency as Ghoul grew tense and began to whimper beneath him. Ghoul plunged his free hand into Poison's hair, jerking it hard, maybe even hurting him. He never knew; Poison never complained.

Ghoul pulled him forward, thrusting into his mouth. Poison gave a muffled cry, little more than a vibration sliding up from the back of his throat, tripping along the roof of his mouth, but he didn't resist. He simply adjusted his angle and bore down hard. The hand between his legs was moving faster now, in hard blistering strokes.

And Ghoul just kept pulling on his hair, kept forcing him, as if he hated him, as if he were furious. He had been furious, but he was quickly forgetting why.

When it was over, Poison stayed down on his knees, his head bent forward. His shoulders heaved a few times as he caught his breath, and then he passed the back of his hand delicately over his lips, swiping them clean.

Ghoul realized that he was still gripping Poison's hair, and he made his hand relax. The sweat-stiff strands of hair had tangled around his fingers, and Ghoul ripped a lot of them loose when he pulled away. Poison did not even flinch.

"Hey…" Ghoul heard himself say, but he didn't know how to follow it up.

Eventually, Poison got to his feet. His face was solemn, composed. With him, you always knew right where you stood.

"Give me a minute, okay?" said Ghoul. He reached out, stroking the side of Poison's face with his knuckles. This time, he stopped well-clear of the spot where he knew the barcode was.

"You still have the first watch," Poison reminded him.

"I know, I know. But just like… one minute by myself. That's all I need."

"All right," Poison said, and he turned and went back toward the circle of firelight.

Ghoul remained behind, not knowing why he had wanted a moment alone but feeling like he had been granted a special favor in receiving it. Poison, he thought, would not have asked if their positions had been reversed.

He let his head fall back against the tree with a solid thump. Somewhere out in the desert, the coyotes chattered ceaselessly. The wind was in the branches of the cottonwood, and the grass sung in the wind. All was in its place and as it should have been, and so he never suspected anything was wrong. Later, he would have time to think how they had not even attempted stealth. He had heard the running footsteps, crunching clumsily through the undergrowth. He had turned, too suddenly, off balance, forgetting his pistol entirely and putting up his arms to shield his face.

It hadn't done any good. A weight had crashed down on him out of the darkness. He didn't feel any pain, but his vision had been filled with red light.

He staggered two steps, already senseless, and then he collapsed into darkness.