by CJ Brightley
“What does it do?”
One-handed, he had a hard time tying the bandage, gripping one end in his teeth, and she helped with her left hand. He moved his right hand to cup icy fingers against the back of her neck, sliding up into her hair. She shuddered. He cocked his head, eyes half-closed as if he was concentrating. Then she blinked. A red light appeared on his shoulder, wavered a moment, and then shifted to his head.
“Move!” He jerked her upward and behind himself. “Around the upright, now.”
A shot cracked, and he jolted into her. She slammed into the metal face first, stunned. He jerked her left arm, pushed her to the side, his body close to hers. “Around it. There’s a step. Drop the tracker and your phone into the water.” He sounded like he couldn’t catch his breath.
Around. Panic rose in her throat and threatened to choke her. His bandaged hand on her shoulder steadied her as she put her booted feet on the ridge that circled the upright.
He followed her to the other side. He was breathing hard, unevenly.
“You’re hit.”
“Yes.” He coughed, a short hard cough. He caught her arm again, kept her in the shadow of the upright. The laser caught the underside of the bridge and moved slowly away, then back toward them. Searching. Floodlights blazed in the darkness, flaring up at them and across the water. “You dropped the tracker? Phone? Good. Wait here for at least an hour. There’s a coffee shop three blocks north of Dandra’s.” Another cough, nearly a groan. “Called Franco’s Fuel. Go there. Stay in the shadows. I’ll find you.” A pause, then, “Don’t go home.”
Then he stood, visible, and took a few steps into the clear. He stood in the cold floodlight until the laser veered toward him, then stepped off the girder. A shot rang out, then more, following him down. He landed feet first with a barely audible splash. She heard boots running across the bridge to look for him. She huddled in the shadow of the wide metal girder.
More searchlights flooded across the underside of the bridge, and she shrank even further into the tiny shadow. She could hear them talking, though some of the words were indistinct.
“Which one is it?”
“Unknown. The human was Aria Marie Forsyth. Birthdate August 19, 2061. Age twenty-four. Address 19 McKenna Walk, North Quadrant. Lives alone. Currently enrolled in Historical Studies at City Central University. No family.”
Aria had to bite back a cry. He was right; they were tracking her. But why? Hearing her life summarized like that, it seemed so small. So sad.
“Did it kill her?”
“Unknown. Probably. She dropped first. We didn’t have the lights up yet.”
“You didn’t hit her, did you?”
“Unlikely. The reading was cold.”
“Could have been her jacket, if it’s thick. Insulation could mask the body temp.”
“Could be. I think I got it, though.”
“Search for her body too. Either way, she’s dead.”
“Unless… no. Never mind.”
“You think it knows about that?”
“No.”
They searched the shoreline. She shivered as she counted them, her teeth chattering in the cold. Nine spotlights downriver. Four upriver. They tilted up toward her again, moving slowly across the undergirding of the bridge, and she held her breath, her knees pulled in to her chest as she stayed out of the light. She tucked her hands inside her sleeves and hugged herself. Her arm hurt, a throbbing pain that burned against the cold, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. She felt the bandage gingerly with her left hand. He’d been inhumanly fast. If I’m the human, what is he? And good with his knife. The cut wasn’t as bad as she’d expected. He’d been efficient. She tried not to think about the shot that had slammed him into her. The sudden rush of air from his lungs at the impact.
He didn’t deserve to die. He’d been hostile, yes, but could she blame him? As much as they wanted him dead, it was no wonder he was suspicious. They called him an ‘it.’
The spotlights moved slowly down the river. She heard dogs barking, IPF dogs on leashes. Big ones, though not like the beast he’d killed. She closed her eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. The cold of the metal stole through her clothes and took her strength. No. If he’s still alive, somehow, I need to meet him. How long has it been?
She glanced cautiously around the upright. The searchlights were distant now, and as she watched they moved farther down the river. Searching. Would they come back? She waited a while longer to be sure but heard nothing aside from the hum of the city. A dog barking. The quiet lapping of the water beneath her.
She took a deep breath and pushed herself up to stand against the upright. She pressed her back to it and glanced at both shores. No one was there now. No one to see her.
Aria felt for the ridge with her foot, slid behind the upright, and eased onto the girder on the other side. She paused, half-expecting a searchlight to flare in her face. Nothing happened, and she crept forward, using the glint of the streetlights on the edge of the girder for a guide. She slid each foot forward carefully. They hadn’t noticed his rucksack, which he’d left on the girder. She pushed it ahead of her, advancing on her knees now. She felt around the top of the girder, unable to see whether he’d left anything else. Nothing.
She found her coat. It was damp inside now with the misting rain, but she put it on anyway and then slipped the strap of the rucksack over her shoulder. She crawled to the end of the girder and felt for the ladder. It was darker here under the overhang, and her heart was in her throat as she swung her legs off the girder and felt for the ladder rungs. She climbed down as silently as she could, and swung from the bottom, trying to judge the distance before letting go.
She landed with a jolt, falling to one knee, then pushed herself to her feet and trudged up the muddy slope toward the street. It was still empty, and she wondered how late it was. She hadn’t worn a watch.
Aria paused at the top, under a streetlight, then thought better of it and moved to a shadow. Last chance. Last chance to stay out of it. She took a deep breath and began walking.
Aria knew Franco’s Fuel, but she didn’t like it. Their coffee was always over-roasted and bitter. The storefront was distinctive, though, which made it a good place to meet. She took a circuitous route, uneasy now about being followed. Which is stupid, because the tracker is gone and no one saw me. But it won’t hurt to be careful. She came to it from the north, slipping through the shadows. She stopped across the street and crouched in the shadow of a hedge.
She jerked in surprise when he put an icy hand over her mouth.
“Follow me.” His voice was only a breath in her ear. “Be silent.”
She nodded and he let go. She trailed him down an alley barely lit by the faint reflections of streetlights on windows along the main road. Then another turn into pitch-blackness. He took her hand in his, and she could feel the cold even through her gloves. Another turn, then the soft swish of a door opening.
“Steps down.” His voice was barely audible. He closed the door behind her, and then took her hand again, guiding her down the stairs. Then, they moved through what seemed to be tunnels, the air cold and still. She could hear his breathing, a catch in each breath, though he made no other sound. She could hear her own, too, over the thud of her heartbeat and her quiet footsteps. He coughed, a short, hard sound. Another turn, and another. Then another door. He put his hand on her shoulder and guided her through, then stepped through himself and locked it. He moved away from her, and she waited. A light flared, and she blinked for a moment in the brightness.
They were in a small room, perhaps ten feet by twelve. There was a camping cot pushed against one wall. A lantern sat on a worn table, and the man stood just to the side and a little in front of it, nearly silhouetted. He studied her for several long seconds while she tried to see him against the light.
“Where are we?” she whispered.
“Under the East Quadrant.” His voice was low, but he didn’t whisper, and she took it as a sign
that they were safe. He looked at her a moment longer, then stepped back from the light. “Sit.” He nodded toward the chair.
He leaned against the table, half-sitting on the edge. He took a deep breath and coughed once, hard, and then again, leaning forward as it shook him.
“I’ll ask a favor,” he said hoarsely.
“Sit down. Or lay down.” She reached forward to help him and he drew back, blue eyes on her face. “You’re hurt. What do you need?” She glanced around the room. There was nothing here, nothing that could help him.
He studied her face one long moment, then drew the knife and held it toward her, hilt first. “The bullet is in my right lung. Dig it out. It’s poison.”
Her mouth dropped open. She backed away, shaking her head. “No. You’ll die. You’re dying now. I can’t…” I can’t believe you’re still standing.
He coughed again, doubled over with his right hand braced on his knee, still holding the knife, and his left held to his stomach. Harder and harder, he coughed and could not stop for a terribly long minute. He gasped and swallowed hard, took a deep breath, wiped the back of his mouth with his hand. It came away streaked with blood.
He stripped off his shirt with one quick motion and dropped it to the floor. Around his waist was the bandage made from his pants. He’d cut off the extra fabric and the knot was against his left side, the fabric pulled wide across his stomach, black and stiff with blood. The caked blood had softened in the river water and now leaked from the bandage, soaking his damp trousers. He picked up the lantern and put it on the floor, then knelt with his back to it.
“Find the bullet. It must come out.” He held the knife toward her again. “There’s not much time.” He bent forward, coughing so hard he couldn’t speak.
Aria pulled off her gloves. She took her coat off and tossed it on the chair.
She took the knife from his hand, which tightened convulsively as he coughed. She moved around behind him and covered her mouth, suddenly nauseated. The bullet had hit just below his right shoulder blade. Blood soaked his shirt and now pulsed out in a slow rhythm, streaking his pale wet skin. The hole was as large as her thumb. Scratches and bruises crossed his back, probably from the fight with the vertril, she imagined.
“Can you lie down?” Her voice was hoarse.
He almost fell forward, caught himself with his right hand, and lay on the cold stone floor, jerking as he tried to control the coughing.
“Do it. Don’t be afraid.” He coughed again. “Break a rib if you have to. Get it out. It must come out.” Then he was racked with coughing, so hard his knees jerked beneath him and his face scraped against the floor.
She took a deep breath. Do it. It’s not going to get any easier. She pressed her left hand hard against his back, the muscles alive beneath her fingers. She stabbed the knife in, trying to push the nausea away. He gasped beneath her and dug his fingers into the floor. She shifted the knife to her left hand and pushed two fingers inside. His flesh and blood were cool, though not as icy as his hands, and the sudden shock of that made her blink in surprise. He truly wasn’t human, despite his looks. A human would be warm, hot, even. Didn’t they say “hot blood” when they described a human bleeding? He was definitely cool.
Farther. She could feel nothing that might be a bullet. She felt the strong solidity of bone, the rib cage, and how the hole passed between two of the ribs into the lung. She pushed, and her fingers moved wetly through and wiggled in the emptiness inside. He jerked beneath her. She was light-headed and queasy at the thought of what she was doing, but she pushed the feeling away.
“I’m going to break it.” Her voice felt like it came from someone else.
He nodded once.
She raised the knife and slammed the hilt downward. Not hard enough. Again with two hands, and there was a nauseating crack. He jerked, eyes shut. He spat blood onto the floor near her knee and coughed again. Quickly now. He said there isn’t much time. She pushed her hand in, fingers reaching past the broken ends of bone. She closed her eyes. Looking at it only made her want to vomit, and she felt more confident as she operated by touch alone. She had a little more play now, and she felt around. She leaned onto her left hand as he twitched and jerked, coughing more weakly, choking on his own blood.
There. The bullet was large and had flattened a little as it hit the front ribs and lodged against the bone. She could feel the layers of tissue sliding against each other as she pushed. She could barely grasp it between her index finger and middle finger, at the very extent of her reach. She pushed a little farther, and he made a small, choked sound. There. She had it. She drew it out, paused to get a better grip on it, and then all the way.
She caught her breath, chest heaving like she’d been holding it for hours. “I got it. It’s out.” She put it in front of his face.
He was still. Eyes closed. She sat back and stared at him. No. Not after that. You can’t die now.
His back rose and fell, evidencing the slightest hint of life. Barely anything. She cast about for something to stop the bleeding and found only his shirt. It was soaked with blood and river water. Maybe he had another? She dug through the rucksack frantically. Six books. A blanket. A smooth, rectangular stone. Socks. One shirt. A pair of soft black shoes, which he was inexplicably not wearing in the frigid weather. She folded the socks and cut the shirt along one side, then knotted it around his chest so the socks made a thick pad over the wound. He didn’t move.
She stepped back and stared at him. It wouldn’t help the internal bleeding, which was doubtlessly worse than what she could see.
She’d wrestled with his limp body, and he hadn’t twitched. He kept breathing, though, and that alone was enough to prove he wasn’t human. His blood smeared her hands and arms. Spread onto the floor. She swallowed bile again. She wanted to throw up, but she wouldn’t. No. Not now.
Should she put him on the cot? It had to be better than laying facedown on the stone floor. But moving him would be challenging at best, and would probably injure him more. She folded the remains of the shirt and slipped it under his face. His lips were open, and a slow trickle of blood dripped from his mouth. She wiped it away. She pulled the blanket from his rucksack and draped it over him.
That looked a little better. The blanket hid the worst of the bloodstains, all but the spot near his face.
Now, what? The room was nearly empty. She sat on the cot and stared around the room, then back at him. She wanted to rub her hands over her face but thought better of it when she looked at them. The blood dried slowly, darker in the corners of her nails and her cuticles.
What have I done?
Chapter Three
His skin was as pale as marble in the dim lamplight. Her own skin was only a little darker. Her friend Amara had teased her, told her she ought to be in skin care commercials, but Aria knew she was being kind. Everyone had good features and bad. Her skin was beautiful, but she was too petite for the current style. Too angular. Her mouth was well-shaped but too wide. She didn’t mind it when she looked in the mirror, but she wasn’t the kind of beauty that advertisers or movie producers wanted.
He was. Or he would have been, had he been human.
She frowned. Hunted, he’d said. Hunted by the IPF, apparently. Were there other hunters, too? Why?
She rubbed her hands over her face. They were dry now, at least, and the blood had rubbed off with a little effort. What time was it? She’d been up for hours when she left her apartment, and it had been hours since then. It must be close to morning. Her eyes felt gritty. She sat in the chair. Her boots were wet, and she kicked them off, but her socks were still damp. She shivered and tucked her cold feet under herself in the hard wooden chair.
She leaned forward and put her head on her arms. Her eyes drifted closed.
Aria woke with a jerk.
His cool blue eyes were resting on her face. He hadn’t moved; he still lay on his stomach on the floor.
“How do you feel?” She nearly whispered it, and t
he sound of her own voice nearly made her jump in the thick, cold silence.
“Alive.” It was a croak, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he looked at her again with a faint smile. “Thank you.”
Her stomach rumbled, and she smiled awkwardly. “Sorry.”
One corner of his mouth quirked in amusement. With a deep breath, he pushed himself up to sit on his heels in one quick movement. In the deafening silence, his gasp of pain was terribly loud. He paused then, eyes closed, fist pressed to his mouth as he slowed his breathing, controlling the pain.
Then he looked at her again. “Where is it?” He was hoarse, and the whisper sounded painful to her ears.
She knelt and found the bullet on the floor. He looked at it in her hand but didn’t touch it.
“They can’t track that one.” He had to stop to breathe.
“Why don’t you lie on the cot? I’ll help you.” She knelt in front of him and offered her arm.
He hesitated, and then leaned on her for an instant as he stood. “You’ll need food.”
“I can get some later. What do you need?”
He was white as ice, and he shivered suddenly as he stood there. He ran his right hand over his face and through his hair. It stuck up afterward, and she thought suddenly that he looked both younger and more tired than before. “How long have we been here?”
“I’m not sure. It’s probably morning.”
“We should move.”
“You’re in no shape to go anywhere.”
He swayed as he stood. “I think you’re right.” His voice was distant, and he blinked dazedly before taking an unsteady step toward the table. She half-caught him as he crumpled, let him down to kneel on the floor.
“You wait here. I’ll go get food. What do you need?” She tried to make her voice certain, strong, competent.
He sagged against the leg of the table. “There’s a butcher shop on Dumbarton Street.” A deep breath. “It’s not far from the ladder we came down. Called Bryson’s. Tell him you’re picking up Owen’s order. Get what you need first, if you’re short of money.” Another deep, painful breath. He coughed once and wiped blood from his mouth. He looked at the smear across the back of his hand thoughtfully and licked his lips. “Take my knife. Don’t show it unless you have to.”
