Wild Thing

by L. J. Kendall

  Then all was still.

  'Faith, what-' Sara stopped at the sight of her own breath puffing out in a white cloud of tiny crystals. She gasped, and the air rushed back into her lungs, searing with intense cold, so cold she had to just sip at the air. Her eyes hurt, watering, and she blinked swiftly, feeling the tears instantly freeze. Her eyes narrowed to slits.

  'Maybe we should get inside? I d-don't think this is n-normal.' Lips already numbing, the cold sliced through her winter jacket and pants. Her fingertips tingled, aching. 'Come’n.'

  Faith whined once and moved forwards, and Sara followed, each step crunching through sudden frost, each breath puffing out in frozen plumes. The air had misted white, and Sara realized it was snowing tiny little flakes, so small she could hardly see them. Sharp snaps and cracks sounded from the branches above.

  Her teeth started to ache, and then to chatter. She could feel ice in her mouth, and her toes hurt. 'F-F-Faith, I th-think we'd b-b-better hurry.' She started to trot, to run, but stumbled and almost fell. What was wrong with her legs, with her feet?

  She couldn't see properly. One eye had shut and now she couldn't open it. Rubbing at it with fingers that wouldn't bend properly, she felt eyelashes snap, and stopped in confusion. The white mist was thinning, but it was so pretty, drifting down like dust from angel wings.

  So cold. She wavered on her feet. Her teeth were chattering so much she couldn't hear her breath freezing anymore. Through the still, clear air she could see the lights of the Institute, closer now. Faith whined, ahead, and she forced her legs to move forwards. Like lumps of lead, she swung them now in a tottering wooden gait, keeping her balance more by luck than skill.

  She couldn't bend her tongue anymore, and it was getting harder to move her legs. Each step was a swaying shuffle, each root and tussock a barrier to haul a leaden foot over, each breath an icy knife in her chest. How had it gotten so cold, so fast?

  The warm lights of the Institute seemed a mile away.

  When Sara and Faith finally staggered from the trees, the cold – already arctic – worsened. Two steps later her legs stopped working entirely and Sara fell, toppling stiffly to the icy ground, snapping grass. Eyes frozen shut on angry tears, she wrestled distant limbs that ignored her. Her hands were fists, clubs she couldn't feel. Elbows digging stubbornly into rock-hard soil, she worked her hips, inching along the ground, carving a path through splintering grass.

  A sound beside her: then stiff fur brushed against her, low, and she managed to unbend an elbow enough to throw one arm over Faith. Together, the two struggled forward toward the light. Faith staggered each time Sara shifted her weight, knees slipping against the ground. The two fought on, step by draining step. No thought, just the endless dragging effort. Faith's turbines made strange, tortured sounds as they tried to spin up, while she moved as if in pain.

  Then warm air, bringing life into her lungs instead of cold death: her skin, her lungs, burning as sensation returned. They collapsed together, sharing the life-saving warmth.

  Rubbing at her eyelids, the stinging heat brought a welcome rush of tears, and she stared blurrily around her. By the Institute's lights she saw they lay just inside a circular perimeter enclosing the buildings. Beyond, frost crusted the ground and made the trees stand out against the dark. Her muscles started working again, in violent shudders that shook her small frame. She sat up.

  They were a hundred meters from the main entrance. Strangely, the white-dusted trees were fading quickly into darkness, the snow already melting. Looking back at the end of their trail, she saw remnants of frost disappearing, and got shakily to her feet. Tottering back to the curving boundary, she gingerly stretched out one shivering hand, ready to snatch it back. But no cold came. The air was normal.

  'W-weird.' She could see Faith agreed. 'Uncle said the Institute's inside a big magical circle, a “Ward”. So that must have been magic c-cold!'

  She unfocused her eyes, not-looking out into the dark, like she always did when she was hunting it. Took a step outside the magical Ward, and stretched… instantly her stomach lurched, and a fierce tingling burned over her skin. It had been here. She opened her eyes and turned back to Faith.

  'C'mon, let's check the b-boundary!'

  Faith looked up at her doubtfully.

  'It's all right, we'll stay close. Oh.' Sara dropped to her knees, hugging her friend fiercely. 'Thanks for saving me, Faith.'

  Chapter 28

  Four thousand kilometers east, Marc Disten stretched, trying to work the knots from his shoulders. He allowed himself a small congratulatory pat on the back as the elevator started its long descent. Today's trading had gone well. Spotting the implications of an abstruse piece of theoretical physics – even if it was something as curious as an article in an obscure journal with evidence that some arcane “universal constant” had changed, and which explained why the packed-light network had so catastrophically collapsed back in ’42 – was the reason traders like himself still had jobs. He'd seen that a few savvy investors would reason that a breakthrough like that might lead to a return to those glorious days of truly high-bandwidth global communications, which meant in turn that he and his software agents had got a jump on the market, earning his investors a return three points above the average gains across the day.

  His fists clenched. It would have been nearer five points if the fools in IT could actually do their jobs. What part of the word “uninterruptible” did they not understand? He'd seriously considered helping them “test” their fail-safe systems by going down into their troll cave and putting a bullet through some equipment – or some people. For a supposedly top team in a top New York brokerage, they were a joke.

  A spasm in his neck warned him to let it go, and he forced his mind away from those pasty geeks with their smirking superior airs.

  His neck spasmed again. Right, right. Think of Julie-

  Fuck.

  Jules was gone. Taken up with that prick DJ. He should've seen the signs when she kept wanting to return to the Seal Club – and what sort of prat thought that name was funny for a nightclub, anyway? – because she liked the “vibe.” Vibe. Meh. If you called an underground pit full of poseur anthros and rainbow-colored people jacked up on god knows what kind of brainstim-

  The elevator dinged, finally, and he rolled his shoulders again, reaching up and back to knead the tense knot of muscle as he strode across the half-empty underground car park. 22:13, he noted, checking his peripheral link. Nice to be leaving at a reasonable hour for…

  No way.

  He stopped as suddenly as if his boots had frozen to the slick cement floor, staring at the long scratch down the side of his sleek black Ferrari T4SX Quattropotenza.

  No. Fucking. Way.

  This carpark was supposed to be covered by top security, and someone keys his T4? No. Just, no. It was a joke. Someone had merely drawn on it in white marker to make him panic.

  He ran the last meters to his car, fingertips feeling-

  Shit!

  He looked up and around at all the security cameras. He'd make sure someone lost their job for this! He stared back down at the long, undulating score mark. That'd be close to a thousand-cred paint repair, and he'd lose half his goddamn NCB unless he could identify the shrivel-souled, dirt-eating, envy-drowned, piss-drinking, bottom-feeding, scum-loving son of a meltie who'd done it.

  Why me? Why does this kind of shit always happen to me?

  He was so angry, the car at first didn't recognize his brain pattern, and he had to fucking stand there counting to fucking ten before his god-damned car would allow its own fucken owner inside. Even the power-laden hum as the four wheel-turbines cycled up to speed failed to ease his mood, since he knew that only a meter or so to his right a huge, ugly score marred the pristine mirror-black finish, like a sign saying “He owns it but he can't protect it.”

  He amped up the volume on the synthetic exhaust and felt the harsh bass rumble through the seat of his spine, echoing through the underground c
arpark like some suddenly-revived saber-tooth tiger growling in its underground cave. A smile flickered across his lips. Disengaging auto-drive, he accelerated and then braked, hard, spinning the steering wheel and almost fish-tailing despite the smart-hubs, then tore up the first up-ramp. Adrenaline surged as he spun into the tight corners, powering up and out of the bowels of the building like a barely-controlled missile.

  By the time he reached the exit ramp onto the street, he knew he should slow.

  Fuck it.

  He roared onwards, glimpsing startled faces as he sliced through a momentary gap in the pedestrian traffic. Spinning the wheel hard right he stormed onto the road like the angel of death. iCars abruptly braked or slowed as his car surged into the flow, a shark scaring minnows from its path.

  His teeth peeled back in a grin. He'd get another ticket or two tonight, but on his income it was worth the thrill. He twitched the wheel left and floored it, surging past the other vehicles as if they'd all suddenly stopped, before plunging back into the stream fifty meters later and ten cars ahead. Behind him, seconds later, came the sweet accompaniment of horns. But his eyes had already narrowed to identify the next opportunity.

  Gradually, though, he calmed, regaining control of himself. Shit, at this rate, I'll wind up writing this beauty off altogether. Which was possibly just what the fucker who'd scored it had hoped for.

  With a major effort he relaxed his grip on the leather-infused steering wheel. Almost, he opted to release the car to auto, but he'd be damned if he'd give up the simple pleasure of driving. Even just sensible driving. He flushed, remembering the startled faces as he'd rocketed out of the building and onto the street like some maniac. What if he'd hit someone?

  Shit, he really had to get control of his temper.

  That'd been half the reason Jules had left, hadn't it, if he was being honest with himself?

  How long had it been since he'd seen his counselor, Jackie? Too long. As he drove, he Linked, requested an appointment. As an afterthought, he also added an apology for the last session.

  With that decision, he felt the tension in his neck ease. As if deep down he knew it was the right thing to do. Maybe he could even turn the wanton damage to his T4 around, use it to learn something, for a change? Grow.

  But for tonight, he decided, he needed company. Shaunessy's, downtown, didn't have pretensions and wouldn't take shit from him, either. Which he respected. He could almost taste the micro-brew already. None of that trendy synth crap they served up at places like the Seal Club. He almost set course for it then and there.

  But Mr Muggles was at home, and needed company as much as its owner did, auto cat-feeder or not. Yeah, he'd defrost some of that Australis Ocean salmon and they'd have a little quality time. Then maybe he'd hook up online and take some negotiable honey down to Shaunessy's for a long, slow cool down. Then a nice long heat-up.

  But Mr Muggles came first. He smiled, already thinking fondly ahead to the welcome he'd receive, looking forward to the kooky cat twining round his ankles and trying his best to trip him up.

  He breathed out a long sigh, offering up a heartfelt “Sorry” to the cosmos, along with a promise to try to be less of an asshole in future. Seriously. What was that saying? “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  He even turned the volume down on the synthesized V16 engine sound.

  They staggered out of Shaunessy's, leaning on one another to keep their balance as he led her back to the car.

  'Whoa! Boy, I didn' wanna say before, but you really oughta get that fixed, you know?' she said, waving at the undulating white scar marring the mirror-black surface.

  Red flooded his vision. Of course, they'd scored that side specifically, so any passenger he gave a ride to would see it. The calculated humiliation set his hands shaking, but this time he let the auto-drive handle the trip to her apartment. After his earlier touch of slightly aggressive driving, for sure he'd have been crowd-shared onto the cops' active-watch list for tonight. Spiteful little shits.

  The bitch had better watch her mouth, though. “You oughta get that fixed.” What, did she think he didn't know that? Or maybe she thought he had to save up to pay for the repair?

  But things improved once inside the car, as always. Malissa-with-an-A thrilled to the leashed power, the enveloping leather aroma, the lumbar vibe.

  All the girls loved that lumbar vibe.

  As the door folded smoothly away and he helped her up and out, he put one finger on those full, red lips to silence her when she glanced back down at the ugly score mark.

  In the ride up in the elevator he slipped one hand down from her shoulder and up under her shift. Grabbing a sample of the merchandise he'd already paid for.

  And suddenly she's telling him to slow down? As if they hadn't already negotiated the deal on her site. Did she think she could change the terms of the contract now?

  But the final shitty straw came after they'd reached her bedroom, when she finally stripped off to unveil the repellent surgical enhancement she drunkenly flaunted as if expecting him to be pleased by it?

  'What's wrong with your- that's- what is that, even? That's not natural!'

  'What's the matter, baby? Selfish prick like you, should be glad I've made it easy for ya! You've probably never satisfied a woman before – this way, even you can't-'

  His hands wrapped around her throat, and it felt so good, choking off the lies. Bitch. But even then she smiled, thrusting herself into him as if this was just a game. As if she could change his mind.

  It made his blood boil all the hotter.

  It wasn't till she fell limp, her weight pulling him forward onto her bed, that he unlocked his hands from around the whore's throat. He felt drained, the anger gone as completely as the woman's life. Crouched over her, frozen in shock, he stared at her. At her body.

  What have I done?

  He gazed in disbelief at the woman; at his hands. One outburst of passion. That's all it had taken. Now his whole life was ruined.

  Stupid fucken bitch! What'd she think was going to happen, when he saw the weird work she'd had done? If only he hadn't come here, to her apartment, in the first place. Or hadn't picked her. But when he'd seen the vid-snippets on her profile: those gorgeous legs; that cleavage…

  He closed his eyes, wishing with all his heart that things were different. That he'd kept control. If only he could keep control…

  And it was at that moment, holding exactly that thought, that the new Pattern eddying in Imaginal space found him. Like lightning finding the tallest spire, the essence meshed with him in a flare of dark energy. Heat drained from the room, and in that moment Marc Disten the stockbroker died.

  A different consciousness rebooted.

  Clear blue eyes reopened and looked around the bedroom, everything made suddenly strange by a faint layer of frost on every surface, even those of the woman's naked body and the teddy-bear motif sheets it rumpled. The small room was colder than an icebox. Bedsheets crumbled as Disten reached out to the lacquered bed-side cabinet and wiped a finger down the chill surface, leaving a line through the dusting of frozen water vapor. Puzzling. But unimportant.

  Disten stared down at the body, considering the problem it presented. Several options presented themselves for inspection, and he wandered into the small kitchen with its black marble bench-tops and began opening the pale wooden-faced cupboards.

  A little later, with the deep fat fryer heating on the stove, he stood in thought, visualizing the imaginary scenario.

  She would be reading, dressed in her flannelette gown. First, smoke would rise from the oil. Smoke detector? Yes, there. He took it down, flipped out the battery, and while the fat continued heating, he patiently shorted the terminals together, draining it before replacing it in its snug compartment. What would she be cooking? Checking her freezer and utensils, he soon had chips frying.

  That done, he fetched the body into the kitchen, checked the oil, and thought.

  Smoke would rise, unde
tected, from the fryer. The woman would be seated at the table, her back to it, still reading. The flames would burst upwards from the saucepan. She would sense it and jump up, panicking, knocking over the chair, tripping as she reached out….

  He realized he was still holding the dead woman. Had been, for some time, unaware. He considered this. With effort, he could sense some muscle fatigue, though it was distant.

  Interesting.

  She would be reading, her back to the stove. Reading what? Kicking over a chair, he draped the body over it, then fetched a book to place by its side.

  Waited.

  Twenty minutes later the oil caught fire. Using two oven cloths decorated with baby animals he lifted the fryer off the stove, bending his head to one side to avoid burning himself.

  Flame sheeted upwards as he carefully sluiced the burning oil over the body. It made an interesting pattern in the air as it fell, not one he'd seen before.

  Stepping back he dropped the pot in the location chosen earlier, putting the oven cloths back on their place on the work bench. The heat was intense now, flame spreading rapidly through the kitchen, devouring the last of the frost. He watched for several seconds, considering.

  At last, judging it satisfactory, he turned and left the apartment.

  Chapter 29

  Harmon stared as Sara entered the cafeteria, clearly excited: her somersaulting roll toward the meal dispenser gave it away. It wasn't until she had bounced to her feet that she noticed him, and froze. He could see the thought: “uh oh” as he checked the time. After 10 pm: over two hours since he had put her to bed.

  Strangely, though, her excitement returned. Indeed, she ran over and jumped onto the bench seat opposite him, leaning forward conspiratorially before he could reprimand her. 'It attacked Faith and me tonight! With cold!'

  He looked around the room. Five empty tables, two garish junk food dispensers, one large white food processor and a tall thin dishbot waiting patiently for him to finish his coffee, reassured him they were alone. Most others left at 5 pm. Now that they'd automated the patient care, only Simmons, Shanahan, and the Director still lived on site; and they ate much earlier.