Jay Posey - Three

For the first time, something inside Three cracked. He felt it without understanding it. And there wasn’t time to analyze it now. But he knew something had changed, and whatever it was probably wasn’t good news for him. Wordlessly, he slid his pistol back into its holster, and went back to the job at hand, trying to forget for the moment that he’d just lost three of his four remaining shells in a flash of unchecked emotion. Not to mention the unwanted attention those gunshots would surely attract.

At first he’d thought she’d meant to kill him, but he saw now that wasn’t the case. Near the left-hand lower corner of the gate, just where the gap was, were two new holes, no more than three inches apart, still glowing orange-red where the thirty-kilojoule rounds had bored through. If only Cass had asked, Three could’ve told her that wouldn’t work, but he felt a twinge of relief as he realized he didn’t owe his life to lousy shooting.

Another squawk sounded from somewhere in the gathering gloom. A melancholy, almost lonely cry that resonated far too well with their current circumstances. Three ran a hand over his bristly head, cracked his neck. The wind was picking up, and the autumn air had the promise of a colder-than-usual winter on its breath. He flexed his fingers, worked out a tightness he hadn’t noticed until now.

“Come on, girl,” he finally said quietly, turning back to her and offering his hand. “We’ll figure this out.”

Cass had her legs drawn up, hugging her knees. She stared off back the way they’d come, refusing to look at him. Despondent.

“We need to go.”

Out this far, the Weir were scattered, harder to predict.

“Cass.”

She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t acknowledge him. But in a quiet voice, more to herself than to Three, she answered.

“I’m done.”

They were losing time they didn’t have.

“No you’re not.”

It was bad enough they were talking instead of moving. Cass was making it worse with long pauses between responses, as if the effort to speak was almost more than she could manage.

“Wren was all I had. No reason to go on if he’s gone.”

“And if he’s not?”

Still she hadn’t moved. Another uncanny howl echoed down the alleys, swirled in the chilling air. Three’s tone hardened.

“You’re his mother. If he was dead, you would know. He’s in there. And it won’t do him any good, waiting here to die. So come on.”

She didn’t look to him. But after a too long moment, she reached up, put her hand in his, let him help her to her feet. When he let go, her hand slid away with the barest hint of reluctance. Three told himself it was from her exhaustion.

“Where?” asked Cass.

Three put on his harness and slung the backpack over a shoulder, all the while scanning their surroundings a final time, searching for that other way. It was here. That voice inside was screaming that he’d seen it already, if he could just think. It was here . Just put it together.

No… not here. He’d passed it somewhere. Somewhere close. But what was it ?

Finally, there was a spark of an idea, a floating scrap of conversation he’d overheard in some nearly forgotten place, some indeterminate time ago.

“Can you climb?”

Wren sat shoved hard into the cold corner of concrete and steel, desperately trying not to breathe. The scaly hand pressed over his mouth had a sour smell that made his stomach feel upside down and the hot breath on his face reeked of strong vapors that burned his eyes. In those last few terrifying moments, the chemlight had rolled away under some piece of machinery, leaving only the faintest glow pooling on the floor. All Wren knew of his captor was that it was human. He could at least feel that much.

Whoever it was shifted, placed its mouth right into Wren’s ear. Its breath tickled when it spoke.

“Quiet, little one,” it hissed. “Quiet, or we die.”

He wanted so badly to call out to Mama, to answer her calls, to let her know he was OK. But even if there hadn’t been a hand over his mouth, the fear in his throat would’ve stopped any sound he’d wanted to make. The thing was human, minimally. But it felt somehow… wrong. Being this close to It flooded Wren with an indecipherable sense, like hearing an argument in another language, unable to grasp the words but unmistakably getting the tone. Whatever was wrong with It, Wren felt simultaneously afraid of and sorry for It. It seemed wild, and lost.

“We’ll go to the safe place… it’s too late for the others. But you can live. If you are quiet .”

It shifted again, and Wren was glad when the hand slipped off his mouth. But in the next instant a strong grip seized him, and then he was being lifted up, awkwardly but not unkindly swung onto his captor’s back, and held securely in place by Its wiry arms.

“Quiet,” It reminded him.

It carried him away at the same unchanging pace as It had approached. Pat… pat… pat… Its bare feet following practiced steps across the concrete floor. Wren saw the yellow-green glow of the lost chemlight grow and then recede as they passed by and moved into some chamber beyond the entrance.

It stopped briefly, Its head swiveling slightly, Its rank whisper washing over him.

“I’m… we need to… I can’t always remember…”

It stopped Itself, exhaled in frustration, seemed to shake Its head as if to clear it.

“Safe first, then we’ll see. Then we’ll see.”

With that jumble of thoughts hanging in the air, It proceeded onwards. Whatever was carrying him walked differently than anyone else Wren had ever known. And he had gotten a lot of piggyback rides before. This one didn’t bounce very much. He almost felt like they were gliding, even when they started going down the stairs. His mama’s calls became muffled and duller, and drifted above him, and finally stopped altogether.

Without his mother’s voice, without that connection to her, Wren felt completely lost. He started sobbing, a silent, shaking cry, frightened of making any noise, but terrified of what might happen to him, and to his mama, and to Mister Three. He jammed his fist in his mouth, tried biting his fingers. Sometimes that worked.

“Don’t cry, little one,” It whispered. “I have a safe place.”

It was pitch-black, and the air was thick with the sickly odor that Wren had first smelled back in the vent, though it was much stronger here. Wren squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He bit his hand a little harder. Somewhere far above him, three rolling booms thundered.

“Too much noise,” It murmured. “That won’t do. It isn’t safe.”

Its arms released and Wren felt himself sliding slowly from Its back. When his feet touched the ground, he just stood there, hand in his mouth, crying and missing his mom.

“Lie down, little one, yeah? Sleep is quiet, and we stay quiet until morning. No noise and no stream, because they hear both. OK? Then we’ll see. I think maybe… maybe it will be the same again… the way it used to be. Maybe, in the morning. We’ll see.”

Wren heard It shuffle not far away and make noises he could only guess meant It was taking Its own advice and lying down. Without knowing what else to do, Wren curled into a ball on the cold concrete floor and bit into his knuckles, fighting desperately the urge to scream.

Cass stared up at the maglev line towering over her, at the twisted scaffolding, the flexing support structure, the tangled mass of metal… and the man perched like a hawk in the midst of it all, twenty feet from the ground. Three was up there, unnaturally nimble, a four-limbed spider in his web of steel, barely visible as the final traces of the day faded into night. He swore it’d be safe but he was checking it out nonetheless, having left her alone on the ground, cloaked in the night air with nothing more for protection. She couldn’t ignore the fact that he hadn’t left the pistol with her this time.