He shoots Lydia, one round, stomach, it pushes her back two steps, she sits heavy, both hands over the hole, dragging her heels back and forth over the floor.
– Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He looks at me.
– OK, I don’t know, but if we can all agree now that Lydia isn’t going to be stopping me, and that you, controversial turn of phrase coming up here, that you are effectively crippled right now, then I think we can also agree that I can make whatever threats I deem necessary, whatever means to the end, because I don’t see who, unless you mean Ben over there, and, Ben, if you make any move I’ll shoot you and your woman because at this point your collective symbolic value is about zero and I’m not the superstitious type so I don’t, you know, have high hopes that she’s carrying the savior. So, in the absence of I don’t know what, Joe, I don’t see where anyone here is going to complicate this rearrangement of power and social values within our community.
I point.
– Hurley is.
Hurley draws his head back.
– An it’s mad ya are at da end, Joe.
Terry’s lips go thin.
– Your brain is boiling, Joe.
It is. My brain is boiling. I have a fever. I’m not sure I’m sweating anymore. Moisture all used up. Skin feels like ash. Touch me and I’ll flake and float away.
I drink whiskey for lubrication.
– Just that Hurley’s of the old school. Germ warfare, extermination of the species, that’s not his thing.
Hurley hooks his thumbs in his suspenders.
– An of course it ain’t. Now, I’m all fer a war, on an intimate scale, mind, a straightaway settlin’ of differences when diplomacy has failed, but every man has his limit, don’t ya know.
I almost laugh, but my throat’s too dry.
– Funny choice of words. I was just thinking along those lines.
He flips his fingers.
– An what worry o mine is it anyway? None. Terry boy, he sees fit ta shake his saber and bug his eyes at Mister DJ Grave Digga an treaten him a bit wit a fate worse dan death, well, so be it an all. Fer goodness sake.
He snaps his suspenders.
– Tis not like he would do it.
Lydia kicks her heels against the floor.
– Hurley.
She loses the words, coughing, but nods her head up and down.
Hurley waves the nods off.
– An yer just feelin’ sore, Lydia, because ya didn’t have yer way. An I know yer worried ‘bout dem kids in Queens an all, but we’ll take car o dat. Dis expedience Terry is talkin’ about, dat word, dat word means we’ll do it quickly is all. Yer just makin’ tings more complicated dan dey is.
– Terry sold zombies to the Chosen in Brooklyn, Hurley.
He frowns, brows drawing down so low they almost cover his eyes.
– Be careful now, Joe. Terry may want ya ta die slow, but if I lose my temper listenin’ ta foul rumor, I won’t be responsible.
My head, it feels like my scalp is a blister. More whiskey for that.
– So maybe I’m provoking you, Hurl. To make it quick. All the same, I gave Terry the zombie juice years ago. It was in these dentures the Horde kid’s dad made. Crazy, huh? Remember that time you saved me from Predo and his goon? Think hard. All that shambler trouble at the time? Doctor Horde was behind that. Terry used the teeth to make a few shamblers, sold them in Brooklyn. That’s where the new ones came from.
Hurley’s frown deepens, eyes hidden in shadow, a cloud over the man that could only be darker if it was spitting rain and lightning bolts.
– Strivin’ ta confuse me with memories o the distant past is a poor course of action.
– Hurl, move a little away from those guns, would you?
Hurley, standing near the gun racks where he’s been gradually drifting for the last minute, born on a tide of uncertainty toward a comfortable shoreline, stops and looks at Terry, and the gun Terry is pointing at him.
– Aw now, Terry boy.
Terry looks at the gun in his own hand.
– Just until your mind clears, Hurley.
Hurley shakes his head. Shakes it again.
– Aw hell, Terry.
– These are complex issues, Hurl, not one of your, I don’t know, strengths, man.
– Sure, and but.
He gives his head a final snapping shake.
– Aw, now that’s done it but good an shaked everythin’ inta place.
He points a sausage finger.
– Zombies, Terry. Of all da tings in da world.
Terry inhales deep, exhales.
– Take a deep one, just draw a deep one in and let it go, just to get some oxygen flowing, clear the cobwebs there. Shine a light on what you believe.
Hurley draws in a deep breath and lets it go in a rush, and shakes his head.
– Naw, dat didn’t shake da taught loose. It’s in dere good.
He takes a step toward Terry.
– Ya did it, didn’t ya? Supplyin’ dem wit zombies? Ya did it. An I mean ta say, zombies. It just goes ta prove what I been tinkin’ fer some time now. Yer not clear in da head yerself, Terry.
Terry raises his shoulders high, drops them.
– Just flex those muscles and relax, go easy on this, old friend.
Hurley raises his shoulders, drops them.
– Still I feel tense as before.
He stops walking toward Terry and rubs his forehead.
– An I do not feel unsure a’tall. An I know it. Yes, I do.
He takes his hand from his forehead.
– Ya did it, Terry, ya did it an it ain’t just a story Joe is tellin’. Ya did it.
– It’s a complicated world, Hurl, like I’ve always said, and some things you do, they have to be done.
– An don’t I know it, havin’ done so many of dose tings? An don’t I know it? But I say it again, zombies. Shame, shame on ya, Terry Bird. Shame.
Terry plants his feet.
– Hurley, man, if you suddenly, if you think you can guide things, if you think you can make the choices that will lead us to a better world then, hey, I don’t know, say so and we’ll change our whole dynamic.
Hurley clucks his tongue.
– It ain’t about dat an ya know it well. An I hardly know anymore what it tis we’re leadin’ to. Dis better world. A world wit zombies in it? No. Somehow, an I can’t say where it was, but somewhere, ya jumped a track, Terry boy, an tis up ta me, yer true friend, ta get ya back on it. Zombies an shootin’ Lydia outta hand like dat, and all dese last few years an da mess we’ve become.
He rubs at the corner of his eye.
– I long fer da old days, I tell ya. An I don’t see nuttin’ in what yer talkin’ ‘bout dat will bring ‘ em back. So, trust me on dis, trust yer oldest friend, dat gook what ya got in yer hand, I tink ya should give it ta me. If ya can step over da line ta usin’ zombies, ya might do about anytin’. An I’ll lie an I’ll cheat an I’ll kill till the graveyards are full up, but always wit me own brain an mouth an hands I’ll do it. Openin’ a bottle an lettin’ out a genie ta kill everyting, dat’s not fer us, Terry boy.
He puts out his hand.
– Yer like a souse on da bottle an tis time ta take da cure. Get clear. So hand it over.
Terry nods.
– Yeah, Hurl. Rough times these.
He shoots.
Hurley keeps walking at him, brushing at the spreading blood on his chest.
– Now, Terry. We’re not children surely? Was dat called fer?
Terry shoots again.
Hurley pats his hip where the second bullet went in.
– An it’s not like I’m suggestin’ ya step down or anytin’. I’m just sayin’ ya need ta remember da limits of, well, human decency here.
Terry shoots again.
Hurley flexes his left arm below the bullet hole in his shoulder.
– It’s a tough ting ta admit ya got a problem. An if da fact yer shootin’ me doesn’t spell it out ta ya, I don’t know what will. Give me da bottle, Ter. Ya dan’t trust yerself just now.
Terry shoots again, his arm fully extended, Hurley just in front of him, the barrel almost touching Hurley’s neck when it goes off, blowing off a chunk.