Chapter 11
The Salton City Commune should not have existed within the boundaries of the Zones. It had been granted the status of Free Expression Area seven years ago - at the same time as Idyllwild and Carmel-by the-Sea - but unlike those other settlements, it was still inhabitable. The crush of the gas rationing years, the food shortages, the streams of refugees that had poured into Battery City from the outlying areas, even the pressure from the Better Living Urban Planning Department, had not been able to uproot the last 434 citizens of the Commune.
Of course, they had protection.
The locals called it Salvation Hill, but in internal Better Living memos it was referred to as the Colorado Compound. Five square miles enclosed behind walls twelve feet high, where the Reverend Doctor Josiah Roger Williams had holed up with 300 families composed of his closest followers, and enough guns to hold out until the Apocalypse.
In the early days of the troubles, doomsday cults had been thick on the ground. Better Living had been able to deal with most of them without force. SCARECROW agents had stood by, idle and bored, while Better Living product reps walked those Bible-beating hicks through the highlights of the spring catalogue. Telling them, the economy was in a natural ebb. Everything they had heard, about Battery City being bankrupt, about the state treasury being empty, those were all the lies and gross exaggerations of a scandal-hungry press. What they needed right now was for people to work, to spend their earnings, to get things back on track. Not to wait around for some god to save them.
It turned out that most people didn't want to die, did not even want to fantasize about dying. And for those that did, the doors of Alameda Street Jail were always open.
But the Colorado Compound was different. Josiah Williams had been preaching the Apocalypse before it became popular. He said that he knew the hour, and the day. But the first date he had set was in August of 1984, and it had come and gone without incident. Undeterred, the Reverend had recalibrated the Time of Trials: February 18th, 1990. Again, the date passed. Next, he placed the day on January 1st of the year 2000. Midnight, he told his church. Be prepared at midnight. They were, and nothing happened.
After that, the Reverend dropped out of public view. He was biding his time. Then the troubles began, and they were everything he had been waiting for.
Rich from the donations of flyover city busybodies, the Reverend spared no expense in the construction of the Colorado Compound. They grew their own food, produced all their goods on site. There was a massive chapel that held 2500 people. Power was supplied by a wind farm.
It took a lot of work to keep the place running – rough, manual labor – and a lot of time away from the important task of preparing for the tribulation times. But the Reverend had thought of that, too. He conscripted the remaining citizens of Salton City. They harvested the crops, tended the chickens and cows, sewed long dresses for the women and severe black suits for the men. Some had the foresight to learn a trade: blacksmith, cobbler, tanner, cabinetmaker. Things basic and Colonial, so that the society wits in Battery City began to refer to the Salton City Commune as 'Historical Shitsburg'.
But everyone knew that the Commune had a thriving black market as well. Because the Colorado Compound was flush with cash – real US currency, not Battery Bucks – and they'd pay well for toothpaste and salt and tampons, none of which they could imagine going without, not even in the little time they had left on earth.
The Reverend believed in order and in god's law, and so if his militia caught anyone outside the Compound with contraband goods, they were immediately confiscated. But they could hardly get everything, and they hardly persuaded anyone to stop making those profitable runs across the border and back.
The Better Living Loss Prevention Department filed these illegal transactions under "acceptable shrinkage". The Security Force had deemed the Commune a "Free Expression Area". No one wanted to deal with a couple thousand gun-toting Jesus freaks. Let them wear themselves out with work, let the heat get to them, or the next Great Fire catch them without the protection of the Better Living Disaster Response Team.
The Company was patient. It could wait. After all, Alameda Street Jail would still be standing for a long time to come.
To Poison, the Commune seemed like their best chance to find a guide. He did not like the idea of consorting with thieves who undercut the Company's profit margin. These, he had always been told, were the most dangerous criminal element of all, because they harmed everyone the Company touched. But with Ghoul's health rapidly declining, he knew there wasn't much time to explore other options.
Besides, it was time to admit the truth to himself. He liked the idea of hurting Better Living. Of hurting his father. He liked the idea of hurting everyone who had ever been complaisant in the Company's deeds. They deserved it. Only Ghoul had ever been innocent.
He let Ray drive. They took the 10 inland, and then headed south on the dusty and ill-maintained State Road 86. The smell of salt, of moisture, was in the air, but as they drove on it was supplanted by the unmistakable smell of rotting meat.
Ray cast an uneasy glance in his direction, but Poison made no indication that he had noticed. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to explain. If Ray didn't trust his intuition, then that was his burden. Poison wasn't about to coddle him.
A faded billboard rose from the side of the road. The word MARINA was painted across the top. Beneath that were the bullet-pointed promises of FOOD, LODGING, ATTRACTIONS, and a picture of a smiling woman in a modest one-piece swimming suit and a bathing cap. A crude, childish penis had been added in red paint, jutting out from the crotch of her suit. Somewhat more recently, her eyes had been filled in with black, and the words "Babylon the Great" scrawled across her face. But even the vandals, it seemed, had gotten bored a long time ago.
"You sure find some interesting places," Ray said.
"Keep following this road," Poison told him. Only then did he take his eyes off the highway.
Ghoul was stretched out across the backseat, his eyes closed, face livid with fever. One of his hands was hooked in the upholstery, his fingers clutching it in rhythmic spasms. Even in sleep, they didn't let up.
Poison didn't watch him for long.
"He okay?" Ray asked. Poison was coming to hate the soft, solicitous, sickroom voice he used whenever he talked about Ghoul.
"He isn't worse."
"Should I stop?"
"No. That won't change anything."
"You could get in back, if you want. I can probably find this place myself…"
"There's nothing I can do," Poison said. Ignoring the heat, ignoring the death-smell, he rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. The tobacco was stale and didn't taste good. Poison knew he had no business noticing something like that now, but he noticed it.
They came over a ridge in the road, and there was water glittering in the valley below. It was no mirage, no trick of the heat; a vast lake lay placid, blue, unruffled by the wind, like a sheet of glass placed on the desert sand.
Ray glanced at him. Poison flicked his cigarette out the window and rolled it up. The smell was intolerable now.
The highway followed the west bank of the sea. Once, it had run right along the shoreline, but the water had retreated considerably since those days. A crumbling lakebed had already swallowed the guardrail in places, and it would soon take the road too. Fifty yards below, the blue water gleamed, cold and malevolent. The color seemed impossible, like a shade that could only be achieved by chemicals. A narrow strip of beach, white as bone, surrounded the water.
The Salton Sea had collected most of the runoff from the Great Fires of 2012. Better Living had never satisfactorily answered the question of what was in the chemical foam it had used to extinguish the flames, but whatever it was had turned the Sea into poisonous slime. The fish had all died. The migrating flocks of birds died too. The smell of death still lingered.
Progress, Poison thought vaguely. Progress.
"There's some kind of hippie colony down here, right?" Ray said. "I heard about something like that…"
Poison looked at him searchingly. He could see that Ray had not spoken out of genuine curiosity, but only because he wanted to talk about something. Poison would have ignored him, but he wanted something to talk about too.
"Wait," Poison said. "We're almost there."
They passed a sign on the roadside, stark black print on white and bearing the Better Living logo. It told them they were entering a restricted area, to have their documents ready. Just beyond the sign was an abandoned security checkpoint. Ray guided the Trans Am around the row of tire studs affixed to the pavement, following the well-worn path through the dust.
The Colorado Compound loomed at once on the right. The wall around it was crowned with barbed wire, a sight comforting in its familiarity. The only structures that were tall enough to be seen beyond the wall were the spires of the massive church, the heads of the windmills, and the guard towers that jutted up at regular intervals.
"We're probably being watched," Poison said. "Don't speed up. Just drive like you know where you're going."
"I thought you did know where we were going."
Poison didn't say anything, didn't even look at him. A black Cadillac sedan came slithering up the road towards them. Ray's foot drifted off the gas pedal, and the Trans Am began to slow. Poison clamped a hand down on his knee, forcing his leg down. The transmission roared in protest, and the car leapt forward. The Cadillac passed them without slowing or signaling.
"What the fuck…?" Ray said.
"Drive," Poison hissed at him. "Just drive. Stop wasting time."
To his surprise, Ray backed down, settling himself once more behind the wheel with his hands at 10 and 2. "Sure. Sorry. I know you're worried…"
That word – worried – made Poison seethe, but he kept his mouth shut.
Presently, they began to see signs of habitation. Empty city streets branched out from the highway. The land there had been divided into lots, but no houses had ever been built. A few crumbling, 50s-style bungalows began to appear. They were decaying, uninhabited. Ray let the Trans Am slow again; he seemed unaware that he was doing it. But it wasn't what he was thinking. These houses had never had anyone living in them.
The Commune itself was located on a broad horseshoe of land that branched off from what had once been a marina. At one end, docks spilled into the dry seabed and the sand around them was studded with grounded boats. All the rest was given over to trailers. A few were double-wide, the rest had only a single cramped room.
No one moved on the street. The only indication that they were not completely alone was the unshakable feeling of being watched from the guard towers of the Compound on the hill.
On a ridge above the Commune there was a trailer that sat apart from the others. It was pastel pink, with the skeleton of a bird painted on the side, its wings spread as if to take flight. A crooked stoop had been erected by the door to give the illusion of a permanent residency.
Poison turned to look in the back seat. Ghoul had not moved, but Poison could see that his jaw was clenched so tightly that the joints stood out like knots. His teeth ground against each other, a soft dry sound.
"There," Poison said, nodding towards the trailer on the ridge. "Go up there."
He affected a confidence he did not wholly feel, knowing only that whoever lived on the ridge sat a little above the others, looking down on them, and so he alone might be able to help them.
When they were near the top of the dirt track that led up the ridge, the screen door of the trailer opened. A man stepped out of the cool and welcoming darkness within. He was wearing flannel pajama pants, a white Henley, and dark sunglasses. A cigarette winked in the corner of his mouth, and a beer bottle glinted in his hand. He leaned his elbows on the porch railing, watching them come towards him.
At the top of the ridge, Poison told Ray to keep the motor running, and he got out. The smell of rot was less up here, but the heat was still unbearable. The man threw back his head and took a swallow of beer. He was long-limbed, long-throated, and his skin was startlingly pale. He must have taken good care to stay out of the sun.
He took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked Poison over leisurely. Poison allowed it. Just like when you meet a new dog, he thought. You have to let it get your scent.
"I have an appointment already this afternoon," the man said at last. "But for you, I could rearrange my schedule."
"We are in need of a guide," Poison said. "We want to go South."
"A coydog?" He twisted the cigarette thoughtfully between two fingers. "Why'd you come all the way up here?"
"You seemed like the type of person who would know people."
He laughed, slow in coming and rusty with disuse. "You're right. I guess I do know damn near everyone. But I don't know you. What's your name?"
"Party Poison."
"Is that so," he said. "Then, I guess, I do know you. By reputation at least."
"That's impossible," Poison replied.
"I guess it's a common name." He laughed again. "You can call me Mikey. And, if you like, you can come inside. Your friend too. It's too damn hot to talk out here."
He turned and went back inside. The screendoor slammed behind him. He had not even looked back, as if he were confident that Poison would follow him. And, after a moment's hesitation, Poison did.
With Ray's help, he got Ghoul out of the backseat, up onto the porch and inside. A wave of cool, dry air washed over them; on a ledge by the window, an evaporative cooler rigged with batteries hummed softly.
The trailer was narrow and cluttered with shabby furniture with sagging springs and scuffed legs but clean new upholstery. The walls were pale blue, encrusted with posters, prints, and old photographs. Every spare surface was equally cluttered with scratched vases, tacky little statues. A shelf of the bookcase was devoted to vinyl records, all of which had probably warped long ago from the heat. One corner of a table had been given over to a collection of women's cosmetics, all of which looked as if they hadn't been used in years.
"What the hell is wrong with him?" Mikey said. He was looking at Ghoul as if he were a mess one of his guests had tracked in.
"He's sick," Ray said.
"No shit. Is it contagious?"
"It's fine," Poison said, and then Mikey's expression changed. It didn't become kinder, only more accommodating.
"You can put him in my room, I guess. It'll be more comfortable back there."
The room he had mentioned was a section of the trailer that had been partitioned off by a painted screen. There was a sofa back there, and a frayed curtain of mosquito netting. Carefully, Poison set Ghoul down and drew the curtain around him.
Ghoul opened his eyes. When he saw Poison leaning over him, he forced a smile. "Everything okay?"
"It's fine."
Poison stroked Ghoul's hair back from his face, keeping he gesture hidden behind his body. When he straightened up again, Ray said in a hushed voice, "This guy is kind of weird."
"He'll do what I say," Poison replied. "Don't worry."
When they returned, Mikey was holding three fresh bottles. "You guys want a beer?"
"I want," Poison said. "To discuss the matter of obtaining a guide."
Mikey's expression tightened. "I know that's what you want. I heard you the first time you said it. But it's not as if he's going to die in the next ten minutes. So sit down and drink your fucking beer."
Poison remained on his feet a moment more, and then, with slow contempt, he sat down on one of the sofas. Mikey handed him a bottle, thrusting it vindictively into his hands.
"These are cold…" Ray said.
"I know. A fucking miracle in the desert." Mikey flung himself down in an armchair and took a long drink. He didn't take his eyes off them for even a moment.
"I can help you," he said at last. "If you play your cards right, I can be a lot of help to you."
"You misunderstand," Poison replied. A smile formed on his lips, tender and cruel. "We don't require the services of a prostitute."
Mikey neither flushed nor paled. He didn't even flinch; his face was set, as if carved out of wood. "I guess it's pretty obvious, isn't it?"
"You seem to live comfortably," Poison said, as if that explained it.
"Those boys from Salvation Mountain pay top dollar. They like to keep me happy. They're afraid I'll tell their daddies on them if they don't. Plenty of them come. Lots more than any one of them suspects. They'd still catch hell from the Reverend if word ever got out."
"So you are their confidant?" Poison said. His unkind smile had deepened, settling into familiar lines.
"No," Mikey replied flatly. "I hate them all."
When Poison didn't say anything in response, Mikey looked away. His eyes moved around the cramped trailer, settling on everything in turn. "I hate this place."
He sighed. "It doesn't matter. You don't want to hear about that. I know someone who can take you. He's making a run right now, but he should be back in the morning. I'll talk to him for you."
Again, Poison did not speak right away, and, after he had taken a slow inventory of the room, Mikey looked at him again. "I don't know who you think you are. I ought to throw you out on your ass for talking to me like you did. But I won't do that. In fact, you can stay here tonight."
How strangely this creature was looking at him, Poison thought. As if he had just issued a challenge rather than extended an invitation. Life, for him, must have been just that: one conflict following the next. But Poison was not inclined towards sympathy. They all had their problems.
"What if I decline?" he said at last.
Mikey narrowed his eyes. "Like I give a shit. Go sleep in your fucking car for all I care."
Poison would not have admitted it to anyone, but he liked that answer immensely. He'd gotten so tired of people with no backbone. He took a long drink from the bottle in his hand. It really was cold, so cold that it hurt when he swallowed. He had, he realized, almost forgotten what that felt like.
"We'll stay," he said. "Thank you for your hospitality."
Mikey relaxed when he said that. Until that moment, Poison had not realized how tensely he had been holding himself, with his shoulders hunched up defensively, his elbows tucked in tight against his body, his knees pinched together. Without those precautions in place, he looked like a different man: loose-jointed, almost awkward. Above this, however, his face remained smooth and impassive. Aristocratic, Poison thought, permitting himself an unaccustomed rhetorical flourish.
"Good," Mikey said. His voice was suddenly hoarse, barely a whisper. "I guess you're not completely stupid. You can have another beer, if you want. I'm sure as hell going to. And I'm not taking any callers tonight."
This last, he said defiantly. His hands twisting around the bottle, his eyes fixed on Poison's face.
"I would not presume to moralize," Poison replied.
"So don't." He got to his feet, a jerky nervous gesture, and began pulling the curtains. Locking down the trailer as if in preparation of a siege.
"Poison…" Ray said quietly.
"Don't," Poison replied. "It's all right."
"I know it's all right. But for god's sake, you don't have to terrorize that poor kid."
Poison looked at him sharply, but before he could speak, Ray finished the beer in his hand and stood up. "I'm going to go move the car. Get it out of sight of the main road."
On the way out, he paused long enough to shake Mikey's hand, to thank him. Mikey suffered it with awkward politeness, but he looked as if he would have preferred a slap to the face.
When Ray was gone, Mikey said, "No one's going to steal your shitty car, you know."
"Yes," Poison replied. "I know."
Mikey gave him a withering look. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. He took one drag, and then ground the cigarette out in an overflowing ashtray.
"Hey," he said. "You want to hear some music?"
Poison glanced toward the painted screen in the corner. "Don't wake him."
"Him?" Mikey said. And then, "Oh, right. Him. No, I'll keep it down."
He didn't, as Poison had expected, head for the shelf of records. Instead, he pulled a guitar case from a repository underneath the table. The case was scuffed and battered, but the guitar inside was pristine. Mikey set it across his lap and dragged his thumb tenderly over the strings. First all of them together, and then one at a time, making tiny, almost imperceptible, corrections to the tuning as he went.
"What's your favorite song?" he asked. His eyes were down, focused on the instrument. There was a disarming simplicity to the question. He was asking it out of genuine interest, which Poison found somehow unsettling.
"I don't have one," Poison said.
Mikey looked up at him, a quick glance from beneath his lashes. "Me neither."
He began to play all at once. The first few chords were nervous, halting; the notes muted by awkward fingerings. Then he seemed to find his balance and the music rang out cleanly. His hands, Poison thought, moved with a savagery even then. The fingers on the neck of the guitar stabbed down on the strings so hard that he knuckles and nails showed white. He began to sing, his voice tuneful, slightly nasal, possessed of a deep melancholy.
Won't you take me back, North Carolina
Won't you take me back, Arkansas…
Poison watched him with polite interest, but he was thinking about Ghoul. He wasn't in any danger of dying, and in fact, under the influence of painkillers, he slept quite soundly. They could spare a night here and then go on in the morning without much risk of any permanent harm coming to him. But still, Poison was thinking about him.
Mikey finished playing, not with a flourish but with a gradual slowing of his picking hand into immobility. He looked at Poison, dark-eyed and inscrutable.
"You seem very talented," Poison said at last.
"I'm not," Mikey said. "I've just had time to practice. Can't just sit around the house getting drunk and sad all the time. Sometimes, you have to do something. Did you like it at least?"
Poison hesitated. "Yes, I liked it."
"You fucking liar." Mikey laughed roughly.
He hadn't been lying, but Poison wasn't interested in making Mikey believe that. He looked away, but he could still feel that hot stare drilling into him. Searching for something, ever searching.
It was then that Ray returned. At the sound of his footsteps on the porch, Mikey gave a start, as if waking from an unpleasant dream, and set the guitar aside. "I'll get you another beer," he said furiously.
They drank the round he brought out, and then the two rounds after that. Outside, the sun had gone down, and Mikey lit candles. In the diffuse light, all edges and angles seemed to soften. Poison's head was humming, but occasionally he would think of Ghoul and it would have effect of immersion in cold water, making him feel abruptly, agonizingly sober.
After the beer ran out, Mikey offered to bring out a bottle of whiskey. Ray wanted to call it a night. He got to his feet, and Poison followed, stumbled, let Ray steady him.
"Stay, if you want," Ray said.
"Ghoul…" Poison heard his own voice, but it seemed to belong to someone else. He did not dare say any more.
"It's okay. I'll go sit with him." He paused. "You don't have to do everything, you know."
And Poison wanted to say that he did, he had to, but Ray was already gone. Slowly, he sat back down. Mikey was busy at the other end of the trailer, mixing drinks. Poison's hand moved, blindly, along the edge of the table. He didn't know what he was looking for, but when he fingers brushed against the handle of a hand mirror, he picked it up.
It had been a long time since Poison had seen his own face reflected in anything but the slash of the rearview mirror. He looked different than he remembered. He had lost weight. There was still a faint bruise under one eye, and his nose was not how it ought to have been. His face was spoiled now, he thought, running the tip of one finger along the bridge, feeling the little divot in the broken cartilage.
It made him ugly. He was both horrified and thrilled by the prospect.
Mikey came back, carrying two highball glasses that clinked with chips of ice. "What happened to you anyway?" he asked.
Poison set the mirror aside. "I got in a fight."
"How's the other guy?"
"Worse."
"Good." Mikey handed over one of the glasses and then he sat down, not in the chair where he had been but on the sofa at Poison's side. He took a long drink. "You know, you have a perfect face."
Poison said nothing. He tightened his grip on the glass in his hand, and moisture beaded around the peripheries of his fingers. Mikey leaned over him, and Poison felt the unsteadiness of his movements, smelled the alcohol on his breath. When they kissed, Poison tasted whiskey and bitters. A strange combination.
Mikey reached for him. Poison caught him by the wrist and held him fast. His arm was thin, the bones light and delicate as a bird's. He wasn't strong, but he was tenacious. They struggled together for almost a full minute before Mikey finally relaxed. He slumped in his seat, his shoulder coming to rest against Poison's.
"Listen," he whispered. "Forget that friend of mine. Let me take you down south. I know the way. I used to go all the time. Just look at all this gaudy shit. It had to come from somewhere, right?"
"Why?" Poison said. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, pretending he could not feel the little gasps of air Mikey drew over his jaw with each breath he took.
"Because I want to go with you." His ribcage moved in a silent sigh. "That's all I want. Just take me with you."
Now, Poison felt he had no choice but to look at him. Mikey smiled up at him lazily, but there was an unmistakable throb of desperation in it.
"That's not what you want," Poison said. "You think you do because you're unhappy. Unhappy people attach themselves to me for some reason."
"Maybe it's because they think you know a secret. You can make them happy." He reached for him again, and this time Poison winced but made no attempt to stop him. Mikey stroked his jaw with the tips of his fingers. "No, it's probably not that."
Mikey kissed him again. It suddenly seemed too much effort to stop him. There was no reason to stop him, Poison thought, unless out of some irrational sense of devotion. But he and Ghoul had never made each other any promises, and with Ghoul it had never been simple like this, never straightforward. An exchange of goods, a transaction, a purchase; that was what Poison needed right now.
With careful fingers, Mikey eased down the zipper on Poison's leather jacket. There was no doubt that he was drunk, but he moved now with brisk efficiency, neither hesitating nor stumbling over the task he had set himself to. His hands were inside Poison's clothes, up under his shirt, stroking his ribs, letting him feel the bite of his well-kept nails.
Poison was on his back, unsure how he had gotten there, with a light, hollow-boned presence floating in the shadows above him. Mikey paused to finish off his drink, and then the weight of his body returned. His mouth was against Poison's throat, his breath wet and hot. And it felt good, good. And he didn't care about anything else. He pawed his way up to Mikey's shoulder, and held onto him so tightly that he gasped with pain.
Mikey's hand moved between Poison's legs, stroking him through his jeans. "That's what I want," he purred. "That…"
There were footsteps on the porch outside. Poison was slow to recognize them for what they were, slow to react. A fist pounded heavily on the trailer door.
Mikey moaned. "Just ignore it."
But Poison had already eased him back and sat up. He passed a hand over his disheveled hair, smoothing it back into place. Mikey glared at him. "You motherfucker," he said, though already he was standing up, tugging the hem of his Henley down.
He went to the door, and opened it just a crack. "Leave. I have company tonight."
Poison rose slowly, shedding his leather jacket. He circled around behind Mikey's back until he could see out onto the porch. There were two of them out there – sleek, well-fed sons of the Colorado Compound. Their narrow black ties were loose, and their white dress shirts were undone at the throats, wilted from the sweat of the day.
"Leave," Mikey said again. From where he stood, Poison could see everything: the stiffening of his spine, the tension stamped around his eyes, the furious clench of his fingers on the edge of the door. "You're fucking drunk."
Poison didn't move yet, and he didn't take his eyes off them.
Out on the porch, the sons of the Compound hooted with laughter. "We've got money," one of them said, as if settling the matter. "That means we get you. On your back."
They laughed again, pleased that here they could get away with saying whatever they liked without reprimand. The trailer door rattled, pushed from without. Mikey tightened his grip, pressing the weight of his body against it.
"No," he said. "Go home."
The door rattled again, and Poison could see the clench of Mikey's fingers on the doorframe going slack, the tense lines of his face evaporating into numb acceptance. He stepped back, letting the door swing wide.
Poison reached for his pistol, but he didn't draw. He stepped forward, into the light. The sons of the Compound hesitated in the doorway. Mikey looked at him as if he had forgotten he was there at all.
"You ought to go," Poison said quietly.
There was a long silence. The two sons of the Compound exchanged a look. At last, one of them managed, "Says who?"
Poison tilted his head, indicating the man beside him. "He does." He swayed on his feet, such a small casual movement that it could have been an accident. But it brought his hip, and the gun he wore on it, into clear view.
Another silence passed. This one was not long, but it was heavy. The sons of the Compound retreated down the porch steps. Mikey did not move at all until they were gone, and then he shuddered violently, as if a current of electricity had passed through his body. He slammed the door and threw the latch, and he slumped against the wall of the trailer, pressing his forehead against the aluminum. His chest heaved silently as he caught his breath, and then he was very still, his eyes tightly closed.
"I hate it here," he whispered. "I hate this place."
Poison glanced toward the partition at the back of the trailer. The screen was still pulled across it. He touched Mikey's shoulder, and Mikey flinched from him.
"You should have just let them," he said. "If you hadn't been here, I wouldn't have cared what happened. I don't care about anything anymore…"
Poison touched his shoulder again, turning Mikey to face him. "Tomorrow you will take us south, across the border. And after that, I'll decide what to do with you."
Mikey laughed weakly. "That's all it took to convince you?"
He brushed Poison aside and sank down on a sofa. When he spotted the unfinished glass of whiskey Poison had left on the table, he snatched it up and swallowed it in a single drink.
Poison sat beside him but didn't try to touch him.
"I don't feel good," Mikey said at last.
"You're drunk."
"No, I'm sick." He leaned his head on Poison's shoulder. "I'm fucked up."
Poison slid an arm around his waist. Mikey accepted it but did not relax into his touch. His eyes were closed, and his breath broke in slow waves against the underside of Poison's jaw.
He was asleep.
Poison laid him down on the sofa, arranging his limbs as comfortably as he could. There was nowhere else to sleep, so he stretched out beside him, spreading his jacket over both of them. It was a close fit, but even with his body accommodated so tightly against Mikey's side, Poison felt almost nothing for him.