DEATHLIFE

After the Plague, things went on like always.

If only I'd hooked up with a stockbroker soon after the Big Germ came to town. I'd be a rich man today instead of working for one. Sales of preservatives, deodorant, and prosthetic devices skyrocketed to unbelievable levels overnight. Anyone with smart s pulled out of the food industry before it took a fatal nose dive. General Mills, Perdue, Pepsi, you name the product--all were left to rot or turn flat on store shelves. Supermarkets? A thing of the past. Entire corporations wiped out, along with Jo e Camel and Molson Gold, I should add. Nobody smoked or drank anymore either.

Great tracts of farmland lay abandoned to the weeds. North America was beginning to take on the look it once had, before the white man came. Unbroken forest from Atlantic Coast to prairie. White man? Funny way to describe the average Caucasian these d ays. Try various shades of gray.

Oh, mustn't forget the makeup industry. Like I said, things haven't changed. Much. By necessity though, vanity prevailed more now than during any time in history. Male customers placed a close second behind the women, and most mommies dabbed up the sc hoolkids a little. Put Estee Lauder on top. Can't touch her stock with a cherry picker.

Me, I run a video store. People's eyes still work. People's ears still work. Nobody, including the medical establishment, has figured out why. There are varying degrees of function ranging from pretty fair to pretty damn bad, and that's mostly what th e staff at Chicago Hope is concerned about these days. Keeping it all attached, intact, and working reasonably well. Almost anybody can press the play button on their VCR and come back with a whole finger, now that health insurance is provided by the go vernment. Health. Another funny word. Sure, we're all healthy. I mean, nobody gets sick. We function. Sometimes barely. But we get by.

Woke up this morning, heard a fly in the apartment. I panicked, had to calm myself down for a few minutes. Just to be sure, I checked myself from head to toe, naked in front of the full-length mirror. Hadn't felt a telltale itch or swelling anywhere. Roused myself in time. Only got dosed with a batch of eggs once, but I scalpeled them out right away and soaked the spot with formaldehyde. I've seen derelicts down by the harbor who are walking maggot farms. The adult flies never leave the nest. Inst ant, perambulating life-cycle food. Even when a bum is sound asleep, he's still moving. You know what I mean?

Killed the fly, a big female. How very safe for humanity. I felt pride. Wouldn't go so far as to say my chest swelled with it. Sick thought.

Left the apartment and shuffled down the hall. Saw old Mrs. Janek bring in the paper. She doesn't look too bad these days. A crew had to take away her husband last year. Before the Plague he was a nutrition nut, never believed in preservatives. Mrs. Janek did. Popped her BHT twice a day. Mr. Janek refused to touch the stuff. The piece of him they carted off was still talking. Amazing shit, huh?

I'm partial to formaldehyde. Works much better, inside and out.

Stood on the stoop and cocked an ear up and down the street. Listened for awhile until I was satisfied there were no stray dogs about. People were so preoccupied after the Plague, they couldn't keep tabs on their pets very well. Most of them ran away i n fear or confusion. Some attacked their owners when they got hungry enough. Instinct. Probably tastier than the canned stuff, in a way.

Anyhow, wild dogs can be a real problem. Dangerous as hell. Most of us lack the strength to ward off a pack, succumbing in no time while passersby stand and watch helplessly. The dogs don't leave much behind as a rule. Sometimes what's left cries out for hours until a crew comes by to load the remains. Worst of all is when only a freakin' head gets left behind. Talk about sheer terror in a face. There was a girl I knew once, still nice enough for--you know. Beautiful chick. A dog pack nailed her b ehind a shopping center while she was shortcutting home. I followed the crowd, later. Had to look. Then I hated myself for going back there in the first place. Pretty blue scared shitless eyes, pleading up at me and still blinking. I couldn't even tu rn away and puke. Nobody has that luxury anymore.

No dogs or cats on the roam. Not as dangerous, cats, but a damned nuisance nevertheless. The volunteer Civil Defense patrols are doing terrific work exterminating the strays--I gotta give them all credit. It's pretty tough for a lot of us to yank a tri gger, let alone hold a rifle up to their shoulder. But to come right down to it, I hate the flies more than anything. Hey, Long Island's got it easy. Some places out west, the vulture flocks terrorize entire towns. We're kind of lucky here I guess.

Very few cars nowadays. Not many people are capable of driving one, even if they could afford the few still manufactured. The air is cleaner than it's been for a hundred years. Good thing, too. There's a lot more pollution of another variety.

The walk to the shopping center did me good. Walking always does for me, even with my dragging leg. But you really have to be careful of too much sun. Nobody goes out once the warm weather hits. People just stay put with their air conditioning set dow n to forty.

Customers were lined up outside the store as usual. Waiting to rent a blessed video, take it home, and watch the way society used to be. I wonder what Bruce Willis looks like today? Kim Basinger? Mel Gibson? How about Jack Nicholson? Good old Jack.

That leer must be quite glinting by now. Hollywood stopped making movies three years ago, when things really started getting bad. Videos are all that's left, little prerecorded treasures people worship and covet. Cults and fan clubs have sprung up all over the place like never before, devoted to this genre or that movie star. Everybody loves their favorite piece of What Used To Be.

It's still hard for me to believe flesh was once pink. Whenever I run a flick in the store I adjust the set's color my way for a touch of irony or just plain gritty realism. Let things appear as they are, man. Nobody seems to mind, except once a custom er got very pissed. I pleaded the gritty realism bit, and then he definitely lost it and stormed out. But he was back the next day. Good customer, this dude. Older guy, well-dressed, smells of money above all else. Comes in three, four times a week, rents one straight, one porn every time. I think he's got a specific area of deterioration if you ask me, which probably accounts for his uptight attitude. All of us have our problems, but a man gets by with what a man can, and a woman seems to go a lot longer and still receive, if you catch my drift.

A fella, different story. The medical field's developed some snazzy implant hardware, when even the proper injection won't put Peter at attention anymore. Doctors are coming up with miracle after technical miracle now that they don't have to devote any time to curing disease. Of course, it was one nasty virus that got us here in the first place. Where were they then?

Rosalee showed up early. Bless her little heart. The two of us cleared out the mob in no time at all, so I promised her a double rest break. No, we don't call it lunch hour any more. She made a face like it was nothing and rang up another customer.

Rosalee's my help. She's like a little sister to me. Sweet as a daisy, wouldn't hurt a fly. Nothing like her boss in that tiny respect. I think she turned sixteen not too long ago, but I'm not certain. Pretty, in a simple kind of way. Comes up to my chin. Sometimes stretches on tiptoe when she talks to me. Cuter than I care to think about. Sure I get the hots for her sometimes. But it wears off. Rosalee's strictly sister-like material. I'm her post-Plague big bro.

Soon as we got slack time I headed for the back to uncarton the new shipment while Rosalee registered. Like I said, there's nothing new being made in filmland. Nobody these days wants to pay to sit in a multiplex just to watch people who look like thems elves. It gets to be too much as it is staring across the living room at your wife and kids. So in the video business, demand continually goes up for a limited supply.

Some typically obscure subjects this month. British talkies from the very early thirties. Philippino action flicks, hilariously dubbed. Mr. Kurosawa's way up there. I usually dupe copies for myself right away before his titles go out, untouchable for weeks at a clip. So far, Ted Turner hasn't got his Venus Paradise's on a single one.

Spent a good hour loading the new inventory into the computer. By then my finger was kind of mashed, so I worked on it awhile. Then Rosalee called me up front.

First thing I saw through the front window was the car, even before its owner. A ninety-four Lexus in mint condition, pre-Plague. The driver sat slumped over the wheel, waiting.

In walked Mr. Offended-at-my-Tint-Setting decked out spiffy as Donald Trump himself, who by the way had himself frozen right up in his Tower, holding out for a cure.

Rosalee started explaining to me how the gentleman had called ahead inquiring about a repair. Smith's the name, he introduced himself. Big, gaudy rings on every finger of the hand that shook mine. I scowled, because they all left deep impressions in my palm, the kind that'll take days to work out. Really pissed me off.

I told him that if he wanted to, he could drop off the machine and I'd have it fixed in a day or so. This wasn't good enough for him. He insisted I come by his place to do the job. Something about the insurance not allowing for possessions leaving the premises or some bullshit. The guy was probably too damned lazy to cart the unit down himself, like typical rich folk. Before I could repeat myself, Rosalee nudged my boot with a pink Reebok.

I looked up to see five hundred-dollar bills fanned out on top of the counter, Mr. Swank behind them looking smug as a Mafia boss on the witness stand. Smith, my corrupted ass. His antipasto salad looked great from here.

If I was still capable of drawing breath, I would have gasped. I looked him right in the eye and said: "You could buy a new four head HQ with this. Why bother, man?"

"I heard you were good," he replied matter-of-fact.

I shrugged the one shoulder I had left. Sure, Donald. I'm a regular ace with the cleaning fluid and swab. Changed a couple of heads and drive belts in my day, but any high school kid so inclined was capable of the same. I'd play his game.

"Thanks, Mr. Smith. When do you want me?"

"This afternoon. You come, I give you the other half. Forty-four Sand Lagoon at one o'clock."

He turned and left.

I shot Rosalee a wide-eyed look. She launched herself into my arms, embracing me so hard we almost got warm.

"A thousand dollars!" she squealed. "You lucky stiff!"

"My reputation is well known."

"Which one, Jimmy?"

"Knock it off," I told her.

"Then I'd have nothing to dream about."

Huh?"

"You nerd. How are you getting there?"

"I'll walk." Then, stupidly, I stared at the cash. "No, taxi," I declared. "Hey, what did you mean by that remark?"

"What remark?"

"Forget it." Sometimes I feel like Rosalee's got the wildest plans on me, but nothing ever comes of it. Lately I wonder a lot if she has a boyfriend.

Turned out Smith owned a beachfront estate in Belle Terre. Awesome views of the Sound. Preserva dispenser built right into the pool. So many skylights, I wondered how the roof stayed up. Then Smith's driver ushered me inside.

Super air conditioning. Not a hint of frost on the window panes--they must be thermocoiled. The digital stat I passed said thirty-eight. Nice. Real nice. Here's one gentleman who'd be around for a long while.

Luxuriant foliage everywhere. Lovebirds and cockatoos cuddling and prancing in heated cages as tall as me. I glanced at a glass coffee table, surprised. That was a box of Marlboro Lights as plain as the skull through my scalp. A fueled butane lighter sat next to it. Must be Smith's last pack, hanging around all these years for sentiment's sake. There were a few people who still enjoyed firing up a cigarette and just holding it. Newspaper shops carried little suction cups to put on the end and start one. I didn't see one of those around, so I took it my host just liked the way the pack looked sitting there.

The entertainment center was something else indeed. I gawked at it like a fool. Seventy four inch NEC rear project with adjoining subwoofers. Disk to disk CD recorder. Even an ancient Garrard turntable, a stack of old Frank Sinatra albums piled alongs ide. A nostalgia nut for damned sure. And speaking of Bruce Willis. Die Hard was unrolling in the VCR, the vivid screen loaded with action. Every shot and explosion shook the floor, the gain barely cranked. Guess this wasn't the ailing unit.

Smith swaggered in wrapped in a gold silk robe. His legs looked almost normal. In fact, the guy was in quite good shape. The rich can still afford the very best. But I'd bet my day's thousand he'd nothing but a stump left between them. Any takers?

He gestured for me to follow, leading me past a bathroom large enough to fit the store. Beyond the black marble sink, an illuminated Jacuzzi beckoned, crystal water swirling. A life-sized statue of David overlooked the scene.

The master bedroom was decked out like the rest of the house. A lot warmer here, and I should have questioned why, but I didn't. King-sized bed set on a brass fourposter. Gold silk sheets. Gold curtains. Bronze carpet, knee deep. That's not very dee p for some people. Said that just to remind myself, hardly anyone lived so well, post-Plague. Plush was too plain a word to describe this slumber chamber.

"There it is," Smith pointed out, indicating the night table. "Let Angelo know when you're done. He'll pay you the rest."

I put my tool kit on the floor and had a look. A no-frills Goldstar, nothing special. I had expected more. When I turned around, I discovered Little Caesar had departed. The portable on the dresser glowed to life.

The VCR probably needed a head cleaning. Smith hadn't stuck around long enough to explain what was wrong with his machine. There was a tape already in it, so I started it.

The Witches of Eastwick. Good ol' Nicholson, playing his pickle triple time like a sorcerer's wand. I always wondered why the fine flick earned only two stars. By the time the credits sailed through town, I realized I was looking at a perfect picture.

I checked every control and function, even with the remote. There wasn't a blessed thing wrong with Smith's Goldstar. The cables were intact. Led back to a multi-jack wall terminal. The whole house wired for video, probably. Then I noticed the camera.

A tripoded Sony, pointed at the bed. Was it on? Sure as hell was. Smith must have been watching me play with his buttons. Reminded me of a Hawaii-Five-O episode. A gangster don had his bedroom set up the same way. Never touched the chicks his underl ings brought into the house. Just enjoyed them onscreen from another room, balling with the help. Jack Lord looked disgusted too.

I waved at the lens, shrugged as only I know how. Please consult, Mr. Corleone. Something I missed?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her. The missus, or somebody like her. Entered through another door naked as Venus on the half-shell. She hasn't noticed me yet. I hate house calls. So embarrassing when some member of the family hasn't been told I' m there.

If I surprised her, she didn't shown it. Gorgeous eyes, model's face, although pushing thirty. And what a body. Best makeup money can buy, all over. Her skin positively glowed. Guaranteed she and the man of the house had their daily Preserva. Perfect white teeth--why was she smiling at me?

She moved closer, her teased black perm glistening like hot oil whenever she passed under a spotlight. Now the lens captured us both. I didn't dig this at all. If hubby was still watching, I'd really be dead meat. He'd have me dismembered, the parts s hipped to various Sicilian ports. I could write home from any one.

"Hello, Jimmy," she sighed, her voice slightly husky and a little too strong. Her breast felt strangely warm where she drew my hand to it. Just out of the sauna?

Smith's mistress giggled some more, not letting go of my hand. She started using it freely, all over. Every place she touched with it, I felt warmth. Warmth that never faded.

I snatched my hand away in terror. Made the mistake of backing into the bed. Off balance, I collapsed onto it, taking Smith's chick with me. Man, if this wasn't a setup to tease the old man and get me hors d'oeuvred in the process. Some women get off on that quite heavily.

She pounced, laughing out loud to provoke me.

"What's the matter, Jimmy?" she cooed, situating the best part of her anatomy right up against my saddle horn. She was irresistible. She was strong as hell. She was

Breathing.

I realized with a shock why I'd torn my hand away before. It wasn't just the unebbing heat. I'd felt a living heart fluttering behind her left boob!

My terror was raw, all-encompassing. How had Smith managed this? She began a movement I was supposed to reciprocate. I recalled rumors and stories I'd never believed, about handfuls of humans inexplicably resistant to the Plague. They'd fled civilizat ion at first, surviving in small bands out in the wild. Gradually, some were lured back, by those of us stricken who had the cash, the desire . . .

Smith would never confront us. That was for damned certain. The lady of the house and I probably filled the living room NEC, subwoofers and all.

Earn your thousand, Jimmie!

No freakin' way.

Kitten reached her first climax right through my jeans, loud and long. And me, not even hard yet. It took a stimject to do that in a guy these days. No blood pressure--remember? If I wasn't so blessed scared, I might have actually enjoyed it. Angel's heart was beating so fast, it felt like a small twitching animal against my chest.

As I lay there pinned in her afterthroes it dawned on me that Smith could easily afford for himself the very best auto-hydraulic implant there was, and most likely waved one under that silk Las Vegas robe. This was his kinky dessert.

I shoved for all my worth, catching the missus unawares in her sated bliss. There was plenty more in her.

"Where do you think you're going?" she pouted, cocksure, ready to grapple again. She lunged toward the dresser. Next to the television, where I hadn't noticed, waited the slim hypo of a stimject. I shuffled for the door pronto.

"Back to the land of the dead," I snapped, tossing Smith's five hundred in her face. She kept coming, grinning, the hypo poised ahead of her. I looked down and started to swoon. The most delicately moist rose in bloom never looked so sweet. Damn those pre-Plague doctors. Man, what a luscious piece of--

I groaned in disgust. Smith had come that close to making a pervert out of me.

His driver went to open the front door as I was leaving.

"Slump you, Angelo," I said, shambling past him.

I walked all the way back to the store.

"I'm out the money, Rosalee," I confessed.

She finished ringing up a customer, waited for him to leave, then turned to me open-mouthed for an explanation.

"You want to hear, huh. You won't know whether to laugh or cry. Me, I just feel a little sick. All kinds of twisted people out there."

Rosalee little-sissed me, hugging me close. Somehow it felt a little different this time.

I spilled the tale. She laughed. She cried. She stretched on tiptoe and

Told me she loved me.

I told her back, whispering it in her one good ear.

She moaned, gentle-like, into one of mine before biting it, easy-like.

I quickly lost my mind and didn't bother looking for it.

We made it right behind the counter. With Rosalee, it felt like the sun dawning on a new world. Ours.

I never dreamed we'd ever do that together. Screw the brother and sister act. Rosalee and I would never look at another body again