A Perfect Machine(5)

Fired.

A clump of bone and gristle slapped against the brick wall, silencing the screams.

Words of anger filtered out from behind the other two dumpsters. It was rare that the Runners fought back.

“Oh, shit. That did it,” Henry said.

A shotgun exploded from behind one of the dumpsters; machine gun fire opened up from behind the other. Wails of pain filled the thin spaces of silence between the metallic staccato.

Henry popped his head up quickly to see if he’d killed the Hunter or just badly wounded him. (He was only aiming to wound, but he might’ve fucked up, blown the guy’s whole head off.)

Five bullets from the machine gun fire whistled into his cranium. The first two slammed out the back, but the last three stuck hard. Two more sliced through his neck, butted up against several others already lodged there. Henry fell backward, exposed to the gunfire, unconscious. Four more bullets found their home in his chest as he lay there, then the firing stopped.



* * *



Milo swore and moved to pick Henry up.

The two Hunters ignored Milo and shuffled to the dumpster where their friend had fallen. Low, muffled curses whipped by wind found Milo’s ears.

The Hunters picked up their friend – each to an arm – and dragged him backward out of the alley, his booted feet leaving trails through the snow.

“Idiot,” Milo said. “Idiot with shit timing.” He hoisted Henry up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. A feeling of distinct unease swept through him, and he hoped like hell that Henry hadn’t killed the Hunter – that maybe by some miracle he was still alive, just very badly wounded.

Milo trudged through the deep snow of the alley, past the three dumpsters where the Hunters had been, walking in the grooves left by their boots. He squinted against the wind, was nearly blinded by the street lamp’s glaring reflection off the crisp, fresh snow. At the mouth of the alleyway, down and to his right, Milo spotted a dark shape, a man, lying on the ground, most of his head pulverized, a misshapen, bleeding lump in the darkness. Definitely dead.

Oh fuck, he thought. He looked up from the Hunter Henry had shot, saw the man’s two friends coming toward him. Scowls under hoods.

The closest one stopped in front of Milo, blocking his way; the other stood behind the first, at his shoulder, glaring, stonefaced. The first one spoke: “This ain’t how the game’s played, motherfucker.” He pointed to Henry, a deadweight sack slung over Milo’s shoulder, still out cold and leaving a trail of blood in the snow behind them: “He killed my friend; now I’ll kill his.”

“Whoa now, hang on a minute, fellas,” Milo said. “Henry was just trying to liven things up a little, you know? He didn’t mean to–”

Something metal glinted in the gaslight, catching Milo’s eye. He looked down. The Hunter had pulled a machete from a sheath.

Milo backed up a step, shook his head once.

The machete swung, sliced through air, through snowflakes, through Milo’s windpipe, vertebrae.

Three crumpled heaps, lying still in the dark. Bleeding.



* * *



When the machete sliced through Milo’s neck, he felt almost human.

With hardly any lead lodged in his neck, the blade sliced clean through, only knocking up against one, maybe two bullets. When his head fell from his shoulders, his eyes blinked one last time. And then he was suddenly floating about four inches off the ground, just hovering, swaying in the cold winter wind. Dead but dreaming.

He stared at his corpse, wished he could reach down, move his body, then grab Henry by the collar, lift him back into the fireman’s carry and move up the street, closer to the warmth in Henry’s apartment. But he knew now that was impossible.

He turned his gaze on Henry’s body, watched his chest move up and down ever so slightly. Still alive. Good. Someone will find you in the morning.

For now, the comforting warmth of Henry’s apartment called to Milo, just three or four blocks away to the north. I’ll see ya soon, Henry. Meet you at home.

Milo drifted up the street, the sensation of not pumping his legs to walk, of not feeling the ground under his feet, was surreal. Whatever he’d become, it was lighter than what he was before. Everything else seemed the same. Eyesight, hearing, thought processes – all working as they had before. Only his sense of touch was gone.

Snow created tingling sensations wherever it filtered through him. One block, two blocks. He passed an old man crumpled in the corner of a storefront, mumbling to himself. The old man paid him no mind. He passed a cat. The cat did not hiss at him. The cat saw nothing, sensed nothing.

The wind died down a little. Milo picked up speed. Rounded a few more corners, then saw Henry’s building ahead. When he got to the bottom of the building, he looked up through the snow, saw Henry’s south-facing apartment window. A dim light glowed inside.

He tried to will himself straight up, felt he could drift right up through the night, coast inside Henry’s apartment through the window like a ghost. But no dice. All he got for his mental effort was a silly look of intense concentration on his face and a sincere flush of embarrassment.

As though people could actually see him trying to fly.

He shook his head, frowned, and floated forward, through the same front door that the living used. Up the stairs, instinctively maintaining the four inches he’d had outside on the street. Up to Henry’s apartment on the third floor. Through the locked door.