Revolution No. 9 by Neil McMahon Read Free Book Online Page A

the brides. Maybe you’ll make maquis someday, and maybe you won’t.”
    Then Taxman said, “You seem to be developing a little attitude problem, HH. Guess we’ll have to work on that.”
    Under the hard stares of both men, Hammerhead deflated into fidgeting. Captain America watched, with the air of a seasoned gunfighter irritated by an upstart punk.
    â€œMarguerite needs to help out here another couple of minutes,” Freeboot told him. “She’ll be ready after that.”
    Captain America sauntered to the table and twisted the top off a bottle of Red Hook ale.
    Monks glimpsed his fingertips. They were thick with callus, like Freeboot’s.
    Monks scanned the other men’s hands covertly. They were the same.
    That could not be accidental.
    The fingerprints had been deliberately obliterated, by burning, cutting, or chemicals.
    The blanket in the bedroom doorway shifted aside and Marguerite came out, holding a chipped white enamel mug. The room became still again as she carried it to Monks. He took it from her and knelt beside a lantern so that he could get a good look. The urine was pale yellow and had the same unpleasant fruity smell as the child’s breath.
    But with no technological means to measure the blood sugar, there was only one way, the way the old-timers had done it. He dipped his index finger into the cup, then put the finger in his mouth. He waited until the taste was gone, then did it a second time.
    There was no doubt. Along with the sour taste of the urine itself, there was a cloying sweetness. It was saturated with sugar.
    Monks got to his feet. All attention was focused on him.
    â€œDiabetes mellitus,” Monks said. “Judging from the other symptoms, it’s very advanced. If it’s not treated, it will kill him. Soon.”
    Freeboot erupted from his tense, staring pose in a convulsive jerk, his hands rising from his sides as if he was ready to fight.
    â€œHow the fuck can you tell that?” His voice shook with rage that seemed far out of proportion.
    â€œIt’s sweet,” Monks said. “His blood sugar’s out of control. Go ahead, taste it. Then taste your own. You’ll tell the difference.” He offered Freeboot the cup.
    Freeboot strode to him and yanked it away, hoisting it to his mouth as if he was going to down the urine in a singlegulp. But the cup hovered at his lips, untasted, for several seconds.
    Then Freeboot spun away and slung it into the fireplace. The cup clanged against the stones, the urine spraying into the flames.
    â€œThere is nothing . Wrong . With my son !” he roared.
    His back remained turned to the room, and Monks had the queasy sense of having offended a primitive, egomaniacal tribal ruler, who next would whirl back and order the death of the messenger bearing bad news.
    But when Freeboot turned around again, his face had become an almost mimelike mask of calmness.
    â€œDiabetes,” he said. “There’s a medicine for that, right?”
    â€œInsulin.”
    â€œAll right, we’ll get some, and you give it to him.”
    â€œWhoa, wait,” Monks said. “First off, it’s a very complicated procedure. You need a precise way to determine dosages and measure blood sugar. Second, a few shots of insulin are not going to make that kid well. He needs major treatment on several levels, and follow-up treatment for the rest of his life.”
    â€œI’m talking about right now. We get him feeling better, who knows? That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”
    Monks’s outrage leaped again at the thought that a life-threatening illness might make a four-year-old child stronger.
    â€œIt is going to kill him!” he finally exploded. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” He stepped closer to Freeboot, holding his gaze, trying to make contact with the father who had to be in there somewhere.
    Freeboot seemed unperturbed. “Let me think