A Perfect Machine(54)

Part of the wall caved in, dust and plaster sprinkled down from overhead. The lights in the hallway flickered but stayed on.

Henry pulled his arms back, surveyed the corpse. Another spike of pain galvanized him and he lashed out again, ripping Krebosche’s corpse in two at the waist, throwing the top half over his shoulder, back into the apartment, flinging the bottom half down the hall.

Henry stomped back into Faye’s apartment, leaving craters in the floor with every step. The floor shuddered, threatened to cave in, but held.

Throughout it all, Milo just stood to the side out in the hallway and wondered what he could do to stop it.

When Henry went back into the apartment, Milo followed him, shouted, “Henry! Henry, stop!”

Henry did not stop. He reached the mangled top portion of Krebosche’s body, picked it up, let loose a strangled cry, and threw it toward the living room window, where it shattered the glass, sailed over the balcony, out into the night.

It dropped into a snowbank in the parking lot below, face up.

“Henry!” Milo bellowed again. “Listen to me, Henry, listen to my voice!”

Henry grunted, snorted, turned toward the sound of Milo’s voice.

“You need to stop, Henry,” Milo said, hands out in a placating, calming gesture. “Faye needs our help. Faye needs your help.” He had no idea if whatever was left of Henry inside this new machine could understand him – could even recognize him – but he had to try. “Please, Henry. Stop. Just… stop.”

Henry stared at Milo, eyes hot coals in his face.

Inhaled. Exhaled.

And again.

Inside his chest, whatever now passed for his heart beat slower. Slower still. Steadied.

Inside Henry’s mind, something resembling rational thought began to return. Outside in the hallway, sounds of panic reached his ears. People screamed. Someone yelled for someone else to call 911. Another wise soul pulled the fire alarm to get everyone out, in case the floor collapsed.

Adelina had just been standing there, motionless for the past few minutes while chaos engulfed her surroundings. Milo didn’t know what, but something seemed to snap her out of it. She said, “This time I can feel it. I’m going back now.” Then she turned to Milo, spoke his name, said, “I will try to make them see you.” Then she vanished.

The building groaned with its new load. Milo feared the entire floor would buckle, sending them crashing through.

He turned back to Henry, said, “You need to pick Faye up, Henry. And then we need to go. Right now. Anywhere but here. We have to–”

Then it happened again.

But this time, instead of doubling Henry over, the pain curved his spine backward as it stretched to accommodate another growth spurt.

Henry’s gigantic head and torso tore straight up through the ceiling into the living room above. He twisted in agony, arms flailing, knocking over the upstairs neighbor’s TV, smashing it to bits. Bashing a couch and chair against the wall under the balcony window. The middle-aged couple who lived there, who’d been woken up moments before by the commotion, were half-clothed, insane with panic, but nearly to the front door. They’d both screamed when Henry burst up through the floor, then one of Henry’s arms came back around the other way after knocking the furniture flying and cracked the woman hard in the chest. She fell to the floor, unconscious. The man fared worse: Henry’s hand – now bigger than a trashcan lid, but far heavier – glanced off the back of his head, tearing a sizable portion away, exposing skull and brain.

He fell beside his wife, and bled out. Dead in a handful of seconds. Henry swept up the man’s body with the same hand that had killed him and flung it against the living room window, some part of his brain rationalizing that this was what was to be done with corpses he had created: they were to be put out of sight. The body slammed through the window, shattered glass sprinkling outward, hit the balcony railing, and tumbled end over end down to the parking lot, landing not far from Krebosche’s half-corpse.

Henry now stood upright. He was more than fifteen feet tall and close to six feet wide.

Milo – whose view was now just Henry’s legs and part of his torso – still had only one thought: escape. But he decided that Henry was too far gone now. He needed to get Faye out of here. He would tell Henry where he was going with her – assuming his ability to interact with the physical world still held – but beyond that, he could do no more.

Sirens wailed in the distance, and he knew it was now or never. He skirted Henry’s lower half, made his way over to where Faye still lay unconscious. He bent over to pick her up, noticed that a big piece of the ceiling had fallen onto her left leg. He moved to her leg, reached out for the chunk of drywall, concrete, and steel – and watched in horror as his hand passed right through.

“Come on, come on, come on – Jesus fucking Christ, come on,” he muttered, tried again, still nothing. He closed his eyes, concentrated on the feeling of grabbing the materials. Thought of the texture of the concrete, the weight of the steel, the chalky feel of the drywall on his fingers.

Tried again: grabbed a tentative hold. Pushed on the chunk as hard as his strength would allow. It budged just enough that he was able to get her free. Her leg had a gruesome gash in it; blood pooled around the wound as the pressure of the piece of ceiling was removed.

Faye stirred at the fresh pain, looked around. “Who… who are you?” she said groggily. “What’s–”