STAGE 5: BUZZARD BOMB

Zack Pike woke up with a boner as hard as concrete. Heswept his hand blindly across the upturned milk crate besidehis mattress and knocked over last night’s half-drunk can of Colt45. Beer foamed out onto his crusty rug. He ignored the spill andhis hand found what he was looking for: the peeled-off beer labelon which Claire had jotted down her cell number, punctuatedwith a little ‘x’ to dot the i.

He picked up his phone and dialled, only to have someoneshouting Korean in his ear. He hung up and tried again. Thistime a soft, raspy voice said, “Hey.”

“Hey, yo, is this Claire?”

“Mmhmm.”

“Hey, yo, this is Zack. The white boy. We met yesterday.”

“Mmhmm, I remember.”

“Hey, yo, so listen. You chillin’ with Ugbo today, or what?”

She giggled. “Odane’s at the hospital. He’s really sick.”

“For real?”

“Mmhmm.”

“He was pretty fucked up yesterday, but damn. The hospital? Some crazy-ass flu be goin’ around or some shit.”

“I know, right? That’s twice now I’ve fucked a sick guy.Creeps me out a little.” She laughed, then said, “So what are youdoing today?”

“Just chillin’. You working today or what?”

“Maybe. I gotta move out of this apartment, though. It’s gross.”

“True, true. You need help with that?”

“Yeah, I really do. Maybe you could come over, help memove some stuff. You got a place I could crash?”

Zack wrapped his hand around his cock. It was hot to thetouch, a freshly wrought shaft of iron. “Yeah, you can set upshop here. S’all good, yo.”

“Awesome. That’s sweet of you. Come pick me up in an hour.”

Forty minutes later he stepped off the streetcar at Coxwelland Gerrard. He’d brought along an empty backpack—a gentlemanly gesture that he hoped would score him some primedeepthroating. The door that led to Ugbo’s apartment was open,so he went up the stairs. The door on the landing was open aswell. He could hear grunting, along with what sounded likesomeone pounding away on a punching bag.

He walked through the door and saw Claire sitting on top ofa large black suitcase, struggling to zip it closed. She was wearingthe same pair of cut-off jean shorts he’d seen before, and a thinshred of white fabric for a top. She was panting, the tendonsthrobbing in her wrist-thin neck.

She made a pouty face. “I can’t get it closed.”

He went over, zipped it up easily, then stood back and sniffed.

Claire giggled from her perch atop the luggage. “Thanks.”

Zack glanced quickly at the gun on the coffee table, thennodded at Claire’s suitcase. “What you got in there, anyway?”

She stood up and dusted off her knees. “Outfits, mostly.Makeup and shit.” She smiled and added, “Some of Odane’sstash.”

Her top was like a piece of gauze. He could see her nipples,and the small spider tattoo on her breastbone. Would she expecthim to pay, or was his accommodation enough? He wonderedwhat kind of arrangement she’d had with Ugbo. He stared at herass as she walked off into the bedroom to grab who knows whatelse.

Zack coughed, then beat-boxed for a few seconds andglanced around the apartment. Like his own place, it was prettybare: a TV on the floor, random piles of bootleg DVDs, a smallpotted cactus on a shelf amongst some bongs and pipes. Whitewalls, grey carpet, dim lamp lighting. The only window wascompletely covered with a Riff Raff poster.

Finally he said, “Are you sick? I mean, if whatever Ugbo gotis contagious . . .”

Claire came out of the bedroom with a Ziploc baggie full ofjewellery in one hand and about a dozen pieces of thong underwear dangling off the wrist of the other.

“I don’t think it is,” she said. “I’d be sick by now. I feel fine.”

Zack nodded. “Cool.”

He helped her pack the rest of her shit, then they went outside to hail a cab. At the bottom of the stairs, Zack said, “Onesec,” and ran back up to the apartment. He grabbed the gun andexamined it. There was a large black cylinder attached to the barrel that was almost the size of the gun itself. A silencer, Zackassumed. He put the weapon in his backpack amongst Claire’scolourful array of panties and hurried back downstairs. His newprize jostled around in his bag, heavy and important, like anancient artifact or dinosaur bone.

On the street, Claire was hoisting her suitcase into the trunkof a busted-up Crown taxi. He slipped into the front seat withthe driver; Claire slammed the trunk closed and got into theback. He saw the Indian driver leering at her tits in rear-viewmirror, and behind her, on the street, he saw a cop car rolling upbehind them.

Quickly he said to the driver, “Wardian Trust Arms. Knowwhere that is?”

“Yes, yes. I know, I know.”

“Go!”

The driver put the car into gear and drove away slowly.Claire blew a bubble in the backseat. Zack’s hands were clenchedinto fists. His cock was still hard. The cop car didn’t follow them.

*

Aaron balanced two garbage bags full of laundry in his armsand walked carefully toward the elevator. Most of the dirtyclothes were his. Two weeks’ worth. Only a third of one bagcontained Samantha’s laundry, which was mostly baby-T’s, pyjama pants, and underwear.

He pressed the down button for the elevator, and the doorsopened right away. One by one he threw the bags into the lift, then stepped inside himself. The laundry facility was located inthe basement. He prayed to sweet Jesus that nobody else wasdown there. It didn’t get much worse than having to make smalltalk with your fellow tenants while loading the ancient, rustymachines with smelly socks and boxer shorts—especially now,when anyone whose path you crossed was a potential mucusfilled vessel harbouring Buzzard Flu germs.

The elevator arrived at the basement, the doors opened, andAaron crept out with his bags into an empty room. He wasrelieved nobody was there, but the silence bothered him. Hewalked over to the little plastic radio Mr. Böröcz had installed inthe corner and turned it on.

As he loaded his clothes into the washing machine, he listened to the smoky male voice on The T.O. Ticker 2210 saysomething about there now being dozens of confirmed cases ofBuzzard Flu in the greater Toronto area. His voice vibrated withsinister gusto, as though he were narrating a movie trailer.

Aaron sighed. He didn’t need Mr. Two-Packs-a-Day to tellhim what he already knew—that a plague of biblical proportionswas at hand and everyone was doomed. He and Samantha hadgathered as much after watching the news the night before.They’d been preparing for this sort of disaster for decades—formost of their lives, in fact. The truth was, they were better prepared to fend off an epidemic than anyone, but at the same time,they knew there was no stopping nature’s mightiest and mostsacred form of population control—pestilence. Staring at thescreen together, they almost felt vindicated, like the emergenceof Buzzard Flu justified their lifestyle.

They were afraid, sure. Extremely afraid. But twisted up inthat fear was the same kind of perverted satisfaction you mightget out of watching a reckless toddler get hit by a car after continuously warning his parents not to let him play in traffic.

When the broadcast was over, they’d looked at each other,and their expressions communicated more between them thanwords ever could. We were right.

Samantha ended up getting what she wanted. They fuckedon the couch, holding each other tightly, stiffly, so that Aaron was barely thrusting, they were simply connected, locked together like zipper teeth, kissing and squeezing and not letting go. Hecame inside her. They had a shower together afterwards. Aaron’sfrozen pizza burned black, but it didn’t matter. They weretogether. They’d somehow found each other in this bizarre, dangerous, and fucked-up universe, and they’d trudge on throughthis epidemic, this Buzzard Flu shit storm, together.

Aaron had slept soundly and woken up reassured. Now herehe was doing their laundry. He and Samantha would be togetherand happy while the rest of the world melted into zombies.

He dumped an armful of shirts into the machine, stompedback over to the radio, and turned the dial until he came tosomething he could stomach. Finally he landed on a station playing Simon and Garfunkel’s I Am a Rock. He left it there, pulledhis mask off his mouth, and sang along cheerfully.

Just as he was accompanying Paul Simon in his declaration ofbuilding a fortress deep and mighty that none may penetrate, heheard the sound of shuffling footsteps behind him. He turnedaround as casually as he could manage and saw a tall, scruffy guyin a black T-shirt and torn, dirty jeans, holding a basket full ofother black T-shirts and more pairs of dirty jeans. He nodded atAaron and said, “Hey,” as though they’d met before.

Aaron grunted, put his mask back over his mouth, and setthe machine to ‘super-cycle’.

The guy said, “You’re Aaron, right?”

*

Samantha was in her bedroom, dancing naked to the thumping rhythm of Marilyn Manson’s version of Personal Jesus. Herhair played in the air like live wires.

When going to bed the night before, she’d felt sick with guiltfor what she’d done, especially with Aaron sprawled out besideher on the bed, unaware that his head was resting on the very pillow she’d propped under her belly while Luca fucked her frombehind. She prayed she’d die in her sleep as punishment for hertransgressions; had even dreamed about being chained to a float ing piece of rock in a sea of lava, forced to suck Satan’s horn likea penis.

When she woke up, she felt electrified. Full of nervous energy. She’d opened her eyes, turned to Aaron and said, “If one ofus catches Buzzard Flu, let’s have a suicide pact.”

He just nodded and said, “Okay.”

Now Aaron was in the basement, doing their laundry.Samantha stood with her hand on the open closet door, movingher hips and trying to decide if she felt like wearing clothes today;wondering if she’d get sick today; if she’d die today; if she’d seeLuca today.

The urge to confess what she’d done was so strong it wasperverse. It wasn’t that she wanted to hurt Aaron. She wanted theopposite. She loved him. But she wanted to share this feeling ofpassion and danger that had been awoken inside her, and Aaronwas her other self. She wanted him to know what she’d done,and she wanted him to be as excited about it as she was.

She mouthed the words, “I will deliver, you know I’m a forgiver,” as she slammed the closet door and spun on the balls ofher feet.

She’d go naked.

The hardwood floor was cold on her feet as she padded herway down the hall to the bathroom and the medicine cabinet.Goosebumps sprouted their way up her legs and back, finishingon her shoulders and causing her scalp to tingle as she looked atherself in the mirror.

Ugly, she thought. She was pale as chalk, her hair a mane ofcoarse black twine. Droopy, heavy-lidded eyes with irises thecolour of swamp water. Tits like pears, nipples too small. Deep,vacuous belly button surrounded by tummy flab. She’d been skinny once. Thank God she couldn’t see her hips from this angle.

She opened the cabinet quickly to banish her hideous reflection, and popped her daily multivitamins, a ginger pill, two AdvilLiqui-Gels, and washed it all down with a swig of cough syrup. Gagged once, but kept it all down.

On her way to the kitchen, the phone rang. The noise startled her. She didn’t know what it was at first. People rarely called them. She continued about her business and poured herself a glassof organic cranberry juice. The phone continued to ring. Shestood with her bum against the counter, gulping down her juiceand staring scornfully at the telephone on the window ledge.Ring—silence—ring—silence—ring. It wouldn’t shut up!

She finished her juice, slammed the glass down on thecounter, stomped over to the phone and yanked it off its cradle.“Yeah?”

“Oh, hi, is this Samantha? It’s Nicole from Faucet Fountain.Is Aaron there?”

Samantha swallowed and pictured Nicole’s clownishlymade-up face. “Oh. Uh, he’s not here.”

“Sorry, I can’t—I can’t hear you. The music.”

Samantha rolled her eyes, stuck out her tongue, and walkedslowly to the bedroom. She leaned in front of the speakers andallowed Marilyn Manson to screech into Nicole’s ear for a fewseconds before stopping the CD player.

“Thanks, that’s better,” Nicole said. “Can I speak to Aaronplease? It’s urgent.”

With her pinkie fingernail in her teeth, Samantha said, “Itold you, he’s not here.”

“Is he on his way to the store, then?”

“No, he’s doing laundry.”

Nicole sighed into the receiver, and Samantha felt she couldalmost smell her disgusting cigarette breath. “He was supposed toopen the store today but he never showed. When he gets back,could you tell him to come in please?”

Samantha hesitated. “Um, Aaron’s sick actually.”

“What?”

“He’s sick. He can’t come in.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, can you tell him to call me at the store please?”

“Uh—” Samantha began, but Nicole had already hung up.She put the phone back in its cradle and muttered, “Bitch.”

*

Martha Haggerty sat on the floor in her kitchen, her backresting against the cupboard doors below the sink, her spindlylegs sprawled out in front of her in leopard print stockings. She’dtaken Nuggles out of the garbage bag and placed him on a bed ofcrumpled newspaper in a cardboard box, and wrote RIP on oneof the flaps. Then she proceeded to smoke joint after joint untilthe whole supply she’d just purchased was gone. Soon she’d haveto seal the box closed with duct tape. Nuggles was starting tostink.

She looked at the seven or eight little roach triangles in theashtray on the floor at her side. If she really wanted to, she couldempty the charred, resinous contents from each one into somefresh rolling paper, but the high would be negligible after everything she’d smoked already. If she wanted to stay numb she’dhave to make another trip up to Zack’s unit.

An earwig emerged from a hole in the baseboard. Marthawatched it scurry along the floor, past where she was sitting, thendisappear under the fridge. She yawned and tried to stand up, buther legs had been asleep, and were now aflame with pins andneedles. She held onto the counter for dear life, giggling in ticklish agony every time she so much as wriggled a toe. After aminute or so the feeling in her legs returned, and she managed toslouch out of her apartment and down the hall to the elevator.She wondered what had become of Mr. Böröcz. For all she knewhe was dead by now. Maybe later she’d ask the nice young manwho’d arrived on the scene and called 911 to finish diggingNuggles’ grave for her.

The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor. For a second,Martha forgot what she’d come up here for, but rememberedwhen she caught a whiff of the marijuana stink emanating downthe hall from unit 608.

As she approached the door she saw that it was ajar. Sheknocked gently and the door inched forward.

“Zack?” she said into the crack.

No answer.

Some kind of rap music was playing inside. Gunshot andscreeching wheel sound effects provided the backdrop for the rapper’s repeated declaration that he would “get his nut”, whatever that meant.

“Zack? Are you there?” Martha said, louder this time.

Still no answer. She pushed the door open slowly, justenough for her to slip into the foyer. The air was foggy withcannabis funk. Martha coughed. She could feel herself gettinghigh again already. Maybe she could just hang out in here for awhile and get high enough to not have to buy anything.

“Hello-oh,” she said in a well-meaning, sing-song tone asshe turned the corner and entered Zack’s living room.

When she saw them on the couch, her sharp intake of breathwas so loud it almost sounded like a scream. She thought she’dcome face-to-face with a two-headed, eight-limbed, fleshcoloured monster in a fit of violent convulsions.

The blonde was riding Zack on the couch in the reversecowgirl position, her skinny thighs vibrating as she bounced upand down on his pasty, hairy lap. The blonde’s eyes were closedand there was a lit joint in her mouth. Zack’s hands cupped herbreasts from behind. An involuntary sound came out of Martha’sthroat, causing Zack to poke his head out from the side underneath the blonde’s armpit.

“Miss H!” he said without stopping what he was doing. “Bad timing, yo.”

Martha spun around. “I’ll come back later,” she blurted, andwas back on the first floor and inside her own apartment withoutany memory of the elevator journey down.

She stared at Nuggles in his cardboard coffin for whatseemed like an eternity, then went to her bedroom and stared atthe ceiling fan, wondering if she had the materials or was competent enough to fashion a proper noose; if she had the guts todo it; if humans and kitty cats shared the same afterlife.

*

Aaron couldn’t believe it. He could not believe it. Thatbristly douche-bag had been in his apartment. He’d brought his germs into the confines of his and Samantha’s haven—andSamantha had invited him!

He should have seen it coming. Samantha had been actingweirder than normal lately. The mood swings. The horniness.The cold emotional detachment. She probably had a crush on thelumbering idiot. What was it about dirty guys with facial scruffand musky B.O. that drove girls wild? He’d never had to worryabout that baffling phenomenon before because he thought—mistakenly, it turned out—that Samantha wasn’t the kind of girlto be attracted to sleazeballs. Thankfully he knew she was toowary of disease to ever do anything about it—especially now,with an epidemic on.

He tied a thick knot into one of the empty garbage bags ashe boarded the elevator, and recalled some of the things the idiothad said. I recognized you from the picture . . . Your place is, like, überclean, dude . . . You must never have people over . . . Samantha’s a coolchick. He wanted to memorize the guy’s words so he could brandish them like weapons in the upcoming fight with Samantha.He tried in vain to remember the idiot’s name. He’d said it, butAaron had discarded it right away like a snotty napkin. It wassomething ridiculous, like Link or Lobo or Lazarus. Somethingdumb.

As the elevator arrived on the fourth floor, he tried to calmdown. Whenever he argued with Samantha, he was always toofrazzled by emotion or exasperation to make any sense. Her cool,stone-faced logic always seemed to put him in the wrong, evenif—sometimes especially if—he was the one who had the right tobe upset. This time he’d take her approach. He had the ammunition: she had broken rule number one and invited someoneinto their apartment without his consent. He’d like to see her tryto talk her way out of this one.

He stood outside the door to his apartment for a moment tocollect himself, the empty garbage bag now a ball of stretched,overlapping knots. He looked at the numbers on the door, andfor a fraction of a second he saw them for what they really were:nothing but arbitrary symbols, meaningless outside their own context. 404. Just a bunch of lines and a circle. This was how hishome was marked.

The toilet flushed inside, and the sound of water swooshingthrough the pipes in the walls seemed to wash the thought fromhis mind. He shook his head, tried to scowl, and let himself in.

Samantha was sitting sideways in the easy chair, naked exceptfor a pair of black and yellow Batman socks. Aaron felt his angerdeflate just from seeing how cute she looked, but he knew he hadto be firm on this. It was the principle, damn it.

“Nicole called,” Samantha said, with obvious scorn in her voice.

“Guess who I just—wait, what? Why?”

“She said you were supposed to work or something.” Shehalf-yawned. “I told her you were sick. She wants you to call her.”

“Screw that.”

Samantha smiled proudly at him before her eyes shifted tothe black ball of knots in his hand. “What’s that?”

“Huh?” He looked down at the bag. He’d forgotten he washolding it. “It doesn’t matter. The laundry bag. Listen.” Hethrew the black ball of plastic into the kitchen and stomped overto the couch. He didn’t sit down, just loomed in front of it, hisshadow stretched across the floor. “I just bumped into a friend ofyours in the laundry room.” He spat out the F-word like a shardof gristle in a tough and flavourless piece of steak.

Samantha just looked at him. Her face gave nothing away. “Who?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Aaron said. “You know who I mean.DeLorean or whatever. The scruffy guy. The dirty bird man.”

Something twitched in Samantha’s neck. She moved in thechair so she was facing him head-on. She didn’t say anything.Only a few seconds passed, but it felt like an immense span oftime.

“What the fuck, Sam. I can’t believe you.”

She put her hands in her hair and stared at the floor, her chestexpanding and contracting with every breath. Her Batman sockswere ridiculous and charming. She was cute. She was beautiful. Aaron felt his anger evaporating—until his brain processed whatshe said next.

“I had sex with him.”