Thomas Blackthorne - Edge

"I'm fine. Really fine."

"I did feel confident on that score."

"How's-?"

"Take a look." The image swung to another bandaged figure. "Here's the man himself."

"Hey, Josh."

"Hey, Richie."

Richard grinned at him.

"Can I ring you again tonight, and talk for longer? I've got to go class now."

"Sure you can. We'll talk later, pal."

"Bye."

He put the phone away, still grinning; and that was when the mood changed. The sky above the open quadrangle seemed to darken, but perhaps that was an illusion, caused by the other boy's bulk, and the hardness of his voice when he spoke.

"Well, fuck it," said Zajac. "Little turd's come back, two days after we was supposed to meet. How about that?"

From the far side of the quadrangle, Mal James called: "Leave the poor bugger alone, why don't you?"

Richard – no, from now on he was Richie – looked at Zajac from beneath his eyebrows, his chin lowered and his shoulders hunched. Zajac was sneering and smiling at the same time.

"Think you can get away with it, do you, little turd?"

Richie straightened up.

"Not really," he said, his tone light.

Something changed in Zajac's expression, as though the ground had shifted.

"Just because there's gym class today don't mean-"

"Forget it," said Richie.

"Ha. I was right about-"

"Let's do it now."

All voices stopped. Faces grew pale.

"Without armour?" said someone.

"What's the matter, Zajac?" Richie stared into his target's eyes, aware of the pulsing throat, the solid body, even the position of the feet. "Are you scared?"

"No, I-"

"Back off," called Mal.

"No." Zajac ripped his knife free. "You've had it now, Broomhall."

"Richard," said Mal. "Run inside to a teacher."

"My name is Richie." He drew his own blade, scarcely hearing the gasps. "And I'm fine here."

This is it.

He began to circle Zajac. Around them, boys formed a perimeter, defining a fighting arena. From the distance, Richie might have heard Mr Dutton's voice calling for them to stop; but he could not be sure, because his hearing was filled with a hiss like surf. This was a sure sign of stress, and he knew it was natural, so he could continue.

Zajac leaped forward and Richie spun away.

"I knew it," sneered Zajac. "Cowardly little f-"

Richie's blade sliced open the back of his hand. Zajac screamed.

It's called defanging, you bastard.

Then Richie slammed his hilt inside Zajac's right wrist while slapping the back of the hand with his left. Zajac's knife spun away and was gone, clattering to the flagstones. Then Richie's foot stabbed into a knee, and Zajac was down.

Got you.

Richie held his blade against Zajac's throat, preternaturally aware of how soft the skin looked, how easy to slit open, and what it would look like if he did.

"This," he said, "is the carotid artery. One and a half inches to penetrate. Five seconds till loss of consciousness. Twelve seconds to die." He shifted the knife to Zajac's arm. "Brachial artery. Penetration, half inch. Fourteen seconds, unconscious. Ninety seconds dead. Radial artery-"

A third of the way through the Timetable of Death, Zajac fainted.

Good.

There was a long, extended pause; then everyone in the quadrangle cheered.

"What's this?" Two teachers finally pushed through. "Broomhall? What's happening?"

"Nothing, Mr Dutton."

"It doesn't look like-"

"Hush, Jack." The other teacher, Mr Keele, touched his sleeve. "It doesn't matter."

"What do you mean, it doesn't matter?"

Mr Keele stared upward, then down at Richard.

"You're off the hook this time, Broomhall. Just this once, all right?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

On the ground, Zajac, bizarrely, had begun to snore.

"Cool," murmured someone, and several boys laughed. But Mr Dutton was looking up, just as Mr Keele had.

"You're exactly right," he said.

The two teachers stared at each other. Then Mr Dutton addressed the boys.

"I'd say global cooling is here."

"Salvation?" said Mr Keele.

"Or a different kind of doomsday." Mr Dutton smiled. "Maybe a cup that's half empty or half full."

Now everyone's attention was on the lead-grey sky. And then…

It's not possible.

… Richard held out his hand, and felt the specks descend upon it. They were so soft, when they touched his skin, that he felt nothing, nothing at all.

What does it mean?

The air was hushed as the sound-deadening, soft cascade intensified like thickening snowfall, darkening the world, changing everything.

Black snow.