Rob Thurman - Chimera

I undid my seat belt and opened the door to climb out. My legs felt oddly anesthetized, as if I were walking on unbending lengths of wood. My dismal expectations were fulfilled. The SUV was totaled. It wasn’t moving another inch, much less carrying us away before the police arrived. Big trouble had transmuted into catastrophe.

While I was taking stock, Paul Bunyan had just gotten through to the operator to report the wreck. Instantly I swatted the phone out of his hand and wasted no time in kicking it out of sight into a distant pile of snow. He gaped at me, his breath puffing white clouds in the air between us. “What the hell did you do that for?”

I ignored him and turned to examine his truck. It seemed fine except for a bent grille and a few dents, but then I saw the right tire was deflated. The crumpled fender had punctured it. Things just kept getting better and better. Around us the street was empty. Since we’d left the mall the storm had only gotten worse. Not many people were risking the roads. Swearing, I moved back to the car. I leaned in and said regretfully, “Misha, I’m sorry, but we have to go.” Our transportation was trashed and Bunyan’s truck wasn’t any more mobile.

With the wad of cloth still pressed to his head, he gazed past me out into the curtain of snow and sighed. “Seems about right.” He was pale but had returned to his familiar collected self, the confusion having cleared. Whether it was his accelerated healing or pure force of will, I didn’t know. Knowing Michael, it was a combination of the two, with a heavy emphasis on will.

“Put on your new coat. I’ll get all our bags.” All that I could carry.

“I said, what the hell are you doing?” A meaty hand fastened on my shoulder and spun me around. “That kid is hurt. You’re not taking him anywhere.”

When you needed one, Good Samaritans were nonexistent, a myth. But try to flee a hit-and-run from the victim end and you were tripping all over them. “Look, pal.” I peeled his hand from my shoulder. “I know you’re trying to do the right thing, and that’s great. But this isn’t your business.”

“When you drag a hurt kid off into a blizzard, I make it my business.” The scowl was full of righteous anger and his fists were clenched at his sides. He was a good man trying to do the right thing; it wasn’t his fault it happened to be at the worst possible time.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I offered sincerely. I expected the comment to be in vain, and it was. The guy was nearly four inches taller than I was and had at least sixty pounds on me. He wasn’t threatened by me in the slightest, and it showed.

“Buddy, the hurt that’s going down is going to be all over you. Now get away from the car and the kid, you hear me?” The fists were coming up now, and I didn’t wait to see if he would have second thoughts. A true Good Samaritan rarely did. Truth, justice, and the American way—for them it wasn’t only a comic book code; it was a way of life. It was admirable, courageous, and inconvenient as shit.

I laid out Mr. Admirable with a quick blow to his spreading gut and a hard clip behind his ear. It was easy. A Good Samaritan didn’t stand a chance with a professional bad guy. He went down instantly, an over-the-hill Goliath toppled by a highly disreputable David. The snow and slush cushioned his fall and I quickly turned him over to keep his airway unblocked. He wasn’t unconscious, only profoundly dazed. He’d come to in a few minutes, long before he became hypothermic. By then we’d be on our way; desperate and directionless but on our way. “Sorry,” I murmured, stripping off his thick wool scarf and shoving it under his head. “The boy will be all right. I promise.” I doubted he heard me, but then again, wasn’t I really saying it more for my sake than his?

“Stefan?”

Michael’s voice drifted to me through the hush. “Coming.”

He was wrapped in his new coat, the price tag still attached to the sleeve. It was a dark blue ski jacket with a hood that framed his face. The cut on his head, although angry and red, had stopped bleeding and once again I was grateful for the unusual healing speed of the chimera. “Here.”

He was holding out another coat in my direction as well as a ski jacket—the one he’d been teasing me about over Chinese food. His threats weren’t idle. It was purple, the same purple, in fact, of his hideous shirt. The precise color I’d hoped not to see again and I was going to be wearing it for a while. “What a pal,” I snorted as I slipped it on and zipped it up. “Did you happen to get me matching gloves?”

“They’re in the pockets.” His eyes brightened despite the line of pain creasing his forehead.

A wonderful thing, revenge . . . when you’re not on the receiving end of it. Tossing pride and masculinity to the winds, I put them on and gathered everything I could carry from the backseat of the SUV. I had to leave the books, food, and most of the clothes, but everything else fit in my duffel bag. “You have the rat?”

He patted the front of his coat. “I have him, but he’s not happy.”

The weasel could join the crowd. Our circumstances didn’t have me jumping for joy either. I slung the strap of the bag over my shoulder, moved up the street away from the cars, and scanned the area around us. We were in an industrial area with warehouses, chain-link fences, and empty lots. Everyone had left early trying to beat the weather; the parking lots were deserted. It’s an often-overlooked yet basic fact of the car theft business: It’s hard to steal what isn’t there. I didn’t see any alternative; we were in for a walk.

“We have to get moving, kid. You up for it?”

Barely ten feet away from me, he was nearly lost to sight behind a veil of white, but I saw his nod. He joined me with head down against the gusting wind. As he reached my side, I saw he had a bag from the mall in his hand. “Misha.” I shook my head, hating to deliver more bad news. “You’ll have to leave it. We have to move fast and you’re already hurt.”

He gave an obstinate thrust of his jaw. “No. I can handle it. It doesn’t weigh much.”

True, it was only clothes. It couldn’t weigh more than five pounds. But trek a mile or so through knee-deep snow in whiteout conditions and those five pounds would soon feel like fifty. On the other hand, I all too easily saw that pile of mall trash through his eyes. Aside from the ferret, it was the first thing he’d bought just for himself. It was the first step on a road that led to independence, something he hadn’t dared imagine for himself back in the Institute. And now I wanted him to throw proof of that treasured step aside. Michael had lost so much in his life. Damned if I wanted to add one more thing to that list, no matter how much of a burden it was at the moment.

“Goddamn, you’re stubborn.” I snatched the bag from his hand and scowled at his knowing expression, wise beyond his years. When it came to Michael, I had sucker written all over me. In a few years, if we survived, I’d undoubtedly be signing over everything I owned to the kid with a glazed and sappy look in my eye. “I’ll take Einstein and Freud. You just concentrate on staying upright. Now come on.” I took a step, then looked over my shoulder and ordered seriously, “Hang on to me. I don’t want to lose you in this. Popsicles don’t make good brothers.”

His hand fastened on to the back of my coat. “You won’t lose me.”

There was a promise I intended to hold him to.

We’d taken only a few steps when I heard the faint groan and bellow of our Good Samaritan coming around. I increased my speed while monitoring the tension of Michael’s hold on me. Within seconds we were out of sight in the whiteout conditions. Safe from discovery from Bunyan or any cops that would soon arrive, I concentrated on slogging through the snow. Murderous colleagues aside, I missed Miami. I missed the sun. I missed the warm air. Here there was only what felt like the next ice age. It abraded skin and numbed face and limbs.