I walk to the stairs.

– Solomon wasn’t stupid. Some junkie walked in here looking to clear out the register, he could handle that just by showing him the gun. Downstairs? Any infected stupid enough to try and knock out the only dependable dealer south of Houston would have to be stone strung out. Shotgun wouldn’t have been worth a shit. Hit a burner with both barrels, take his head off, his fucking body will walk across the room and rip you in half.

– Know that for a fact, Joe?

I’m half down the stairs. I stop and look back up at his silhouette at the top.

– I know it.

He starts down.

– Still and all.

– Yeah?

– Shame he didn’t have it down here today.

We hit the bottom and look at the corpse of the Candy Man.

– Shit, Christian, he wasn’t one of us. Fuck did he think he had to worry about from real people?

– Got a point.

There’s a box of garbage bags in the corner with the cleaning supplies.

I pick up a mop.

– Ready to get started?

– Sure.

He tears a bag out of the box.

– Why you think they done it?

I stick the mop bucket under the tap in a big slop sink.

– Could be the Van Helsing is only half smart. Killed him before he realized he wasn’t infected. More like, he knew Solomon was the Candy Man. Knew it would cause a shitload of trouble cutting off the supply down here. Did it Stoker style to make a point. Something like that. Fits with poisoning the blood in the fridge.

He squats and starts picking up the smaller pieces.

– Sounds about right.

He drops a hand in the bag.

– Sorry, Sol, you were a hell of a confectioner.

Evie won’t talk to me.

When I call, the night nurse says she’s fine, watching TV, but doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

That could mean anything from she really is watching TV to she’s bent over her plastic bowl with chemo-heaves. I know which is more likely, but I try to pretend it’s the other.