A Perfect Machine(4)

From that day forward, he did nothing but drink – never showing up to another Run – until everyone who mattered to him disappeared.

Jonathan Witters died alone of liver failure in his shitty little apartment.

And there’d been more than a few others like him over the years Henry and Milo had been running. They had discussed this particular series of disappearances more than most because they’d known Jonathan so long. Not long enough to get close, to become someone they – whoever they were – would target, but long enough to do more than just register he was gone.

“Taken by God,” Milo said the day after Witters’ body had been found. They were at Henry’s apartment, drinking, playing video games. “All of them.”

Henry had remained silent at first; just took a sip from his can of stout, frowned, mumbled something Milo couldn’t make out.

“What was that?” Milo asked.

“Doubtful,” Henry said, clearer this time.

“Why doubtful? What else could it be?” Milo said.

“Look, we always go round and round on this, Milo, and I don’t want to do it again. You know I don’t believe in any of that shit. I don’t know where they go when they disappear – just like I don’t know what happens when we ‘ascend,’ or whatever the hell you wanna call it. If that’s even true, and there’s no proof that it is.”

“Alright, alright, settle down,” Milo said. “Just trying to give their lives a little more meaning than if they’d vanished into the fucking void, you know?” He took another swig of beer, glanced sideways at Henry. “So sensitive, my word.”

Milo grinned, nudged Henry with his elbow, trying to lighten the mood, but Henry wasn’t having it.

“Nah, man, I’m just not interested in assigning magical explanations to real-world events. I don’t know where they go, but who’s to say that real people don’t come and take them away? We don’t know that for sure. All we know is what Kendul and Palermo tell us, and what our ancient –” and here Henry put down his controller to make air quotes with his fingers “– holy books –” picking his controller back up again “– have to say on the subject. And that’s less than useful, since they’re as vague as humanly possible in their descriptions, saying only that they’re ‘removed from the offender’s life.’ Shit, I’d be more inclined to believe aliens steal them than some god has anything to do with it. What kind of shitheel of a creator would do that? And if he did, then fuck him.”

The two clattered their controllers for a while in silence, destroying aliens on Henry’s TV screen, then Milo said, “God doesn’t give a shit what you think, Henry. If he exists, he will fuckstart your face for that level of blasphemy. And then your mom’s. And then your cat’s. He will fuckstart all the faces, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it.”

Milo grinned, glanced over at his friend.

After a moment, Henry grinned a bit, too, said, “Shut up, dickhead. I don’t have a cat.”



* * *



Tonight, shadows moved quickly against a backdrop of random white, like the snow on a TV screen. Same running crew as always. Same Hunters, too, save for a few new faces on both sides. Young faces – fathers teaching sons.

Each side of the city attracted different kinds of Runners and Hunters. But with one thing in common: both operated below the collective conscious. For most intents and purposes – invisible.

Everyone in this particular Run thought the gas lamps in this part of the city – east of the railway tracks that cut through the city’s center – made for the best ambience; the electric streetlights to the west side of the tracks were too garish. Too modern.

Henry and Milo sprinted side by side, two strips of black cut out of the fabric of the storm. Henry had brought a gun this time – to present a danger, keep interest up. Prevent boredom: Hunters’ flesh was not nearly as bullet-friendly as Runners’. Officially, Runners bringing weapons was intensely frowned upon, but certainly not unheard of. There were consequences, but you had to be caught to suffer them, so as long as you could manage to avoid that…

A shotgun blast cracked nearby. Three Hunters spread out, settled in behind dumpsters in the alleyway Milo and Henry had entered, coming in off a main street. The wind cut to a minimum here. Henry recognized the area – it was very near the same part of the city he’d fallen in last night. He and Milo hunkered down behind some trash bins, caught their breath, listened for movement from the dumpsters.

“Fuckers hemmed me in last night,” Henry whispered, pointing behind them to the corner where he’d gone down in a quickspray flash of red.

“Tired of the chase?” Milo said.

“Must have been, yeah. Though I like to think I provide a reasonable challenge, you know?”

Another shotgun blast crisped the night, lit up the graffiti-strewn brick walls around them.

“That’s why tonight,” Henry said, cocking his Magnum, “we piss them off a little.” He stood up fully, in plain sight, popped off a round in the direction of the closest dumpster, where one of the Hunters’ feet was visible through the blowing snow. Henry’s shot pulped it.

The Hunter fell to the side, propped against the wall. Screamed his lungs out. Henry ducked behind the trash can again, leaned to his right, just enough to see his target’s head through the heavy snow.