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〃No； that ain't where you like to stick dirty things； is it？〃
Before Trevor could fully process this remark； Sammy got up from the table； slipped behind the bar； and came back with a glass full of neat whiskey。 He took out his syringe； immersed the needle in the amber liquor and swished it around several times。 Then he pulled out a cheap cigarette lighter； ran its flame along the needle and let it linger on the tip。 The alcohol flared up clear blue； burned off fast。 Sammy glanced at Trevor。 〃Satisfied？〃
Trevor had no idea if this procedure really sterilized the needle； but at least the scummy…looking crust of dried blood was gone。 He nodded； feeling as if somewhere during this transaction he had lost the upper hand。
Sammy bent over Trevor's arm and slid the needle into the open scar closest to the elbow。 For a moment he probed； and a scintilla of pain shot through the soft meat。 Then the needle found a vein and sank in deep。 Sammy pulled the plunger slowly back。 A dark flower of blood welled into the syringe。 Trevor felt the needle shivering with each beat of his heart。
Sammy kept hold of his hand； idly stroking his wrist and playing with his fingers。 But as soon as he had a full hypo； Sammy yanked the needle out of the wound。 With absolutely no wasted motion he pulled up his own sleeve； stuck the needle deep into the flesh of his inner elbow； and pushed the plunger。 Trevor's blood seemed to rush into his vein as if his own blood were sucking hungrily at it。 Trevor saw Sammy's eyelids fluttering； the pinkish rag of his tongue glistening in his mouth。 〃Ohhh 。 。 。 thaasss the sweeeeet red 。 。 。〃
Then Sammy's hands spasmed and his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed face first on the table。 The hypo fell out of his arm and rolled off the edge of the table； the inside of the barrel still coated with a thin film of blood。 Sammy's right hand hit the glass of whiskey and sent it spinning to the floor。 Its harsh reek filled the bar。
Trevor grabbed a handful of Sammy's hair and lifted his head off the table。 It felt as light as a hollow gourd。 The junkie's face had gone a sick blue beneath the already…gray cast of his skin。 His eyes were closed； his chin slicked with spit。
Then the handful of hair separated from Sammy's scalp like dead grass ripping out of dry dirt； and Sammy's head smacked against the tabletop and split open as easily as an overripe melon。
Shards of his fragile skull went skittering away。 Much of it simply sifted to dust。 His brain looked like burnt hamburger meat； desiccated and crumbling。 Trevor saw a thing like a cloudy marble trailing a length of red string roll to the edge of the table。 One of Sammy's eyeballs。 It teetered for a long moment； then plopped moistly to the floor。 There was very little blood。 The tabletop quickly became littered with teeth the color of old ivory； drifts of hair gone ashen gray； dust that smelled like a freshly opened mummy case： faintly spicy； faintly rotten。
Trevor stared dumbly at the wreckage he had made of his father's cartoon character。 The running joke about Skeletal Sammy had been that he could shoot anything。 Morphine； Dilaudid； straight H； you name it。 Junk peddlers had tried to poison him with battery acid and strychnine when he got too deep into them for credit； but Sammy just pumped these noxious substances into the old vein and came back for more。
It had taken the son of his creator…his brother； in a way … to give Sammy the kick he couldn't get twice。 And if Sammy had ever known where to find Bobby； he wasn't telling now。
Trevor squeezed Sammy's thin wrist。 The skin flaked away beneath his fingers until he found himself clutching little more than bone。 Once more he was alone in this place that felt as empty as a junkie's promise。 Trevor rolled down his sleeve； put his jacket back on； and walked out of the bar。
The street was still deserted。 He chose a side street that ran alongside the factories but didn't seem to lead directly into them。 He had no tears left for Sammy。 He kept walking。
Zach managed to drop the empty coffee mug and curl up next to Trevor before the pain slammed into his chest。 For several seconds it rendered him quite unable to breathe； and he thought that was it： he'd killed himself quick and neat with a single dose of a socially acceptable drug used by billions of people without a second thought every day of their lives。
Then his lungs hitched and he was able to suck in a shallow； agonizing little breath； then another。 His heart was beating so hard it made his limbs tremble and his vision throb。 He rolled closer to Trevor； hooked an arm across Trevor's chest； made sure their heads were close together on the pillow。
Every muscle in Zach's body felt pulled in too many directions； stretched too thin。 He imagined the fibers pinging and snapping one by one。 The pain was exquisite； electric。 It burned and jittered and screamed。 The mushrooms in his system only upped the ante。
A red curtain began to draw across his vision。 Zach let his eyes unfocus； felt himself slipping。 It occurred to him that if he blacked out and had frightening dreams； the stress on his heart might kill him before he could wake up。 / don't care； he thought。 If I can't find Trevor； I don't have a hell of a lot of reason to e back。
The pain lessened； then disappeared。 He felt as if his weak flesh and his confining brain were dissolving； releasing him。 All at once Zach found himself hovering somewhere near the center of the room； staring down at the two bodies on the bed。 Their limbs were intertwined； anchoring each other。 They looked defenseless； as fragile as the cast…off husks of locusts that would shatter at a touch。
This is real！ thought Zach。 I'm having an actual out…of…body experience！ He tried to quash the thought； afraid it might jolt him back into his flesh。 Instead he suddenly felt himself skimming along the ceiling； on the verge of being pulled through the wall。 Zach dug in his psychic nails and fought to stay in the bedroom。 He was afraid to lose sight of their bodies。 And on the other side of that wall was the bathroom。
But he was already through； circling madly near the ceiling； so close he could count the cracks in the yellowed paint and the cobwebs that clogged the light fixture。 The room whirled faster； faster。 Now there was no ceiling； no floor； nothing but a nauseating blur of toilet and tub and sink that looked stained again with rotten blood； though it might have been the shadows。 Zach felt dizzy with centrifugal force and terror。
He was in a vortex； being sucked toward the tub。 For a moment he thought he would go spinning straight down the black orifice of the drain。 But then he saw the glittering shards of mirror and felt himself swirling into them； fragmenting。 It was like being forced through a screen； like falling into a kaleidoscope edged with razor blades。
Zach recognized the next place he saw。 It was a place he knew well。 It was his cradle； his home； his most addictive drugIt was cyberspace。
The writer Bruce Sterling defined cyberspace as the place where a telephone conversation seems to occur。 This could be extrapolated to include the pl