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Authors: Chris F. Holm
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in the head – but could he really see me?
I rested my weight against the loading dock and stretched my consciousness toward him – probing, testing. The pain in my head redoubled as I struggled to focus. My body went slack as I pulled away. My vision dimmed.
I brushed against his mind, and he flinched as if stung. I settled back into the Friedlander body. The kid stared at me with wide-eyed terror.
"That isn't very nice," he said, shaking his head, his knife held ready between us. "My head is crowded enough already."
"I'm sorry." My hands were raised palm-out, my tone placating. "It's just that most people, they can't see me. What I am. Their minds won't let them."
He scowled. "You thought I was crazy."
"Of course not!"
"Everyone thinks I'm crazy. I guess maybe I am. But the pills, they dull everything. The tastes, the smells, the sounds. They reduce it all to ash. You ask me, I think crazy seems the saner option."
"Listen, kid, you got a name?"
"My mother called me Anders."
"Nice to meet you, Anders. Mine called me Sam. You think maybe we could do without the knife?"
He looked down at the knife in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, and then at me. From his jacket Anders produced a makeshift scabbard of duct tape; he slid the blade into the scabbard, and both disappeared into his jacket.
"Sorry," he said. "I was worried they'd come back. The ones who hurt you."
"Did you see them?"
"Yes. They were not like you. They were fuzzy. Hard to see. Like looking at the sun."
Shit – angels. That's what I was afraid of. What they wanted with me, I had no idea, but it was clear it wasn't good.
I pushed myself up off the ground and clambered awkwardly to my feet, careful to keep my weight on my good leg. "Anders," I said, "I have to go. I don't think I can walk, so you'll have to help me. You think you can do that?"
Anders nodded. "Is this about the girl?"
"What do you know about the girl?"
"Before, in my head, when you were trying to escape – you said she was in danger. That you had to save her. That everything depended on it."
"I did?"
"Yes."
I eyed him appraisingly. "So you in?"
Anders shrugged. "I guess," he said. "I mean, I'm not busy."
I laughed.
Anders added, "You said something else, too, you know."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"You said you thought she might save you ."
I smiled and shook my head. I didn't doubt what the kid said, but I'd been a fool to even think it. After all, I was lost a long time ago.
9.
"Are you all right?" Anders asked. "You don't look well."
"I'm fine," I lied. Truth was, my head was fucking killing me.
"You're slurring. You need to sit down."
I opened my mouth to argue, and then closed it again. Anders was right. We'd been hobbling along for what seemed like hours, and I was exhausted. My leg was throbbing, my mouth was dry as dust, and my head felt like it was full of angry bees.
I looked around. The world lurched – my vision was slow to respond. We were heading north on Church, a few blocks south of City Hall. At the corner was a mounted cop, lazily scanning the crowd from atop his steed. I looked away. Beside us was a family of tourists, decked out head to toe in New York gear, and walking hand in hand. Their youngest, a girl of maybe six, caught my eye as they passed. Her eyes flickered with black fire as she spotted me, and her smile faltered, replaced by a look of pure hatred. As soon as it appeared, though, it was gone. She shot me a quizzical glance as though I was to blame, and then she smiled again, turning her attention once more to the sights of the city.
"I think maybe I should sit down," I said, "but not here. We need to get off the street."
Anders led me through a narrow parking lot to a side street. Beside a rusted metal door marked as the service entrance for the deli around the corner sat a battered
I rested my weight against the loading dock and stretched my consciousness toward him – probing, testing. The pain in my head redoubled as I struggled to focus. My body went slack as I pulled away. My vision dimmed.
I brushed against his mind, and he flinched as if stung. I settled back into the Friedlander body. The kid stared at me with wide-eyed terror.
"That isn't very nice," he said, shaking his head, his knife held ready between us. "My head is crowded enough already."
"I'm sorry." My hands were raised palm-out, my tone placating. "It's just that most people, they can't see me. What I am. Their minds won't let them."
He scowled. "You thought I was crazy."
"Of course not!"
"Everyone thinks I'm crazy. I guess maybe I am. But the pills, they dull everything. The tastes, the smells, the sounds. They reduce it all to ash. You ask me, I think crazy seems the saner option."
"Listen, kid, you got a name?"
"My mother called me Anders."
"Nice to meet you, Anders. Mine called me Sam. You think maybe we could do without the knife?"
He looked down at the knife in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, and then at me. From his jacket Anders produced a makeshift scabbard of duct tape; he slid the blade into the scabbard, and both disappeared into his jacket.
"Sorry," he said. "I was worried they'd come back. The ones who hurt you."
"Did you see them?"
"Yes. They were not like you. They were fuzzy. Hard to see. Like looking at the sun."
Shit – angels. That's what I was afraid of. What they wanted with me, I had no idea, but it was clear it wasn't good.
I pushed myself up off the ground and clambered awkwardly to my feet, careful to keep my weight on my good leg. "Anders," I said, "I have to go. I don't think I can walk, so you'll have to help me. You think you can do that?"
Anders nodded. "Is this about the girl?"
"What do you know about the girl?"
"Before, in my head, when you were trying to escape – you said she was in danger. That you had to save her. That everything depended on it."
"I did?"
"Yes."
I eyed him appraisingly. "So you in?"
Anders shrugged. "I guess," he said. "I mean, I'm not busy."
I laughed.
Anders added, "You said something else, too, you know."
"Yeah? What's that?"
"You said you thought she might save you ."
I smiled and shook my head. I didn't doubt what the kid said, but I'd been a fool to even think it. After all, I was lost a long time ago.
9.
"Are you all right?" Anders asked. "You don't look well."
"I'm fine," I lied. Truth was, my head was fucking killing me.
"You're slurring. You need to sit down."
I opened my mouth to argue, and then closed it again. Anders was right. We'd been hobbling along for what seemed like hours, and I was exhausted. My leg was throbbing, my mouth was dry as dust, and my head felt like it was full of angry bees.
I looked around. The world lurched – my vision was slow to respond. We were heading north on Church, a few blocks south of City Hall. At the corner was a mounted cop, lazily scanning the crowd from atop his steed. I looked away. Beside us was a family of tourists, decked out head to toe in New York gear, and walking hand in hand. Their youngest, a girl of maybe six, caught my eye as they passed. Her eyes flickered with black fire as she spotted me, and her smile faltered, replaced by a look of pure hatred. As soon as it appeared, though, it was gone. She shot me a quizzical glance as though I was to blame, and then she smiled again, turning her attention once more to the sights of the city.
"I think maybe I should sit down," I said, "but not here. We need to get off the street."
Anders led me through a narrow parking lot to a side street. Beside a rusted metal door marked as the service entrance for the deli around the corner sat a battered
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