کتاب 06-01

BOOK SIX

PHOENIX FEBRUARY

1

From the diary of Harold Cross:

AUGUST 10th:

THEY LOVE SINGING THOSE OLD-TIME HYMNS IN THIS CAMP. WE GET “AMAZING GRACE” ALMOST EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, CAROL STROKING THE KEYS OF THE ORGAN LIKE SHE THINKS SHE’S RAY CHARLES. LET ME TELL YOU SOMETHING, THERE’S NO GRACE AND THERE’S NO GOD AND I’M THE PROOF. IF THERE WAS A KIND, BENEVOLENT MASTER SPIRIT WATCHING OVER US, I WOULD NOT BE A VIRGIN AT TWENTY-FIVE. I AM PERHAPS THE ONLY WHITE AMERICAN MALE OVER THE AGE OF EIGHTEEN WHO HAS NOT MANAGED TO USE THE APOCALYPSE TO GET HIMSELF SOME PUSSY.

ALLIE STOREY SPENT TWO WEEKS COMING ON TO ME—PRACTICALLY HUMPING MY LEG. SITTING WITH ME IN CHAPEL. ASKING ME TO “HELP OUT” IN THE KITCHEN WHEN THE PLACE IS DEAD EMPTY, SO WE COULD BE ALONE TOGETHER. FLICKING WATER ON ME SO I’D FLICK WATER ON HER, SO SHE COULD LET ME HAVE A LOOK AT THE TWINS UNDER HER WET T-SHIRT. I THOUGHT MAYBE SHE WAS FEELING NEEDY BECAUSE HER MOTHER DIED. AS I NOTED EARLIER, ALLIE’S LOSS SUGGESTED MY POSSIBLE GAIN: THE DEATH OF A LOVED ONE IS A NATURAL APHRODISIAC. IT WAS LOGICAL TO HOPE SHE’D SEE MY COCK AS A POTENTIAL COPING MECHANISM.

BUT I THINK NOW SHE WAS PLAYING SOME FUCKING GAME WITH ME. MAYBE SHE PRETENDED TO LIKE ME TO ENTERTAIN THE OTHER GIRLS—MAYBE THEY DARED HER TO SEE HOW MANY DAYS SHE COULD STRING ME ALONG, HOW MANY TIMES SHE COULD GIVE ME BLUE BALLS AND THEN LEAVE ME HANGING. FINALLY AFTER WEEKS OF WAVING IT IN MY FACE, I MAKE A MOVE ON HER, AND SHE ACTS LIKE IT WAS ATTEMPTED RAPE.

“JESUS, YOU SHITHEAD, CAN’T YOU LET ANYONE JUST BE YOUR FRIEND?” SHE SAYS.

“YEAH,” I SAY. “LET’S BE FRIENDS. LET MY DICK BE FRIENDS WITH YOUR FUN HOLE.”

SHE SHOVES ME SO HARD MY GODDAMN GLASSES HIT THE FLOOR AND SHE GRINDS HER HEEL ON ’EM ON THE WAY OUT AND NOW I’M JUST ABOUT BLIND.

I WISH SHE WAS IN THE COTTAGE WHEN HER MOTHER BURNED. I WISH THEY BURNED TOGETHER. I WISH THIS WHOLE PLACE BURNED.

THIS PLACE IS A HOT, DUSTY PRISON CAMP, AND EVERYONE IS WATCHING ME ALL THE TIME, BUT A LATE-BLOOMING FRIENDSHIP WITH JR HAS MADE IT POSSIBLE FOR ME TO SLIP OUT OF CAMP ON AN ALMOST DAILY BASIS. THE MAN IS A MAGICIAN. EVERY TIME I VISIT THE CABIN, I ASK MYSELF WHY THE HELL I STAY AT CAMP WYNDHAM. NOT ONLY DO I HAVE A GENERATOR AND INTERNET THERE, I HAVE HOT POCKETS. EVERY BITE IS EXTRA DELICIOUS KNOWING NO ONE ELSE IN CAMP GETS ANY.

HAD AN E-MAIL FROM SAN FRANCISCO: BIG BREAKTHROUGH ON STUDIES OF THE INFECTED LUNG THERE. THEY’VE GOT TWO THOUSAND PEOPLE IN THE PRESIDIO WHO HAVE HAD DRACO INCENDIA TRYCHOPHYTON FOR THREE MONTHS OR LONGER, AND NINE OF THEM SHOW EVIDENCE OF THE SAME SKILLS THE FIREMAN HAS DEMONSTRATED: LIMITED IMMUNITY FROM BURNS, AN ABILITY TO SELECTIVELY LIGHT THEMSELVES ON FIRE, CONTROLLED PROJECTION OF FLAME. IN THE MEDICAL COMMUNITY, THESE PEOPLE ARE CALLED PYROMANCERS. NOW THERE’S A SUGGESTION THAT ALL OF THE PYROMANCERS, AND MANY OF THE OTHER LONG-TERM CASES, CAN ENDURE LEVELS OF SMOKE THAT WOULD KILL MOST PEOPLE.

OF COURSE WE’VE KNOWN FOR A LONG TIME THAT THE SPORE “EATS” CARBON DIOXIDE AND EXUDES OXYGEN. BUT IN THE LONG-TERM SICK, THE SPORE EVENTUALLY COATS THE PARTS OF THE BRAIN THAT CONTROL RESPIRATION (THE PONS AND MEDULLA OBLONGATA). A PRELIMINARY THEORY HOLDS THAT WHEN THE HOST BEGINS TO SUFFER FROM SMOKE INHALATION, THE BRAIN TELLS THE DRAGONSCALE IN THE LUNGS TO GO INTO OVERDRIVE, EATING THE TOXINS, AND PRODUCING CLEAN BREATHABLE AIR. A BETTER NAME FOR DRAGONSCALE WOULD BE THE NIETZSCHE VIRUS—IF IT DOESN’T KILL YOU, IT MAKES YOU STRONGER.

WORKING ON A NEW POEM:

ALLIE STOREY IS A DIRTY WHORE,

MUCH LESS BEAUTIFUL THAN THE SPORE,

THAT PROTECTS HER LUNGS FROM SMOKE,

EVEN WHEN SHE DESERVES TO CHOKE

NO, I KNOW. NOT VERY GOOD.

THANK GOD I’VE GOT MY CABIN AND THE INTERNET AND THERE’S STILL A LITTLE PORN LEFT. THERE’S EVEN DRAGONSCALE PORN NOW! IT’S SURPRISINGLY HOT. HA HA. GET IT? GET IT?