A Perfect Machine(6)

Inside, it was probably warm, Henry’s living room radiator hissing out heat. But Milo couldn’t know for sure. It felt the same temperature to him as it did outside. Cold.

The coldest he’d ever felt.

Milo floated into Henry’s bedroom, saw the covers on his bed flung back. Clock on the nightstand flashing 12:00.

Outside, the sky was getting lighter. Someone would soon find Henry’s body, even if the usual society cleanup crew was asleep at the wheel: a waitress on her way to work, a construction worker crossing the street for his morning coffee.

Milo considered leaving Henry’s apartment to wait for Henry at the nearest hospital, but he couldn’t summon the courage to go back out. The apartment was comfortable. Familiar.

The curtains were open and the light coming in was thin and wan. Milo moved over to the window, reached up a hand to close them, but couldn’t get a grip. His hand didn’t pass right through; it brushed the curtains a little, made them move, but it was as if he wasn’t strong enough to grip the material.

Morning hands, he thought.

He concentrated harder, felt his grip tighten a bit. The curtain moved a little more, as though being brushed by a draft. Milo tried a few more times, but couldn’t get a firmer grip. He left the curtains alone, stood by the foot of the bed. Stared at the flashing clock.

Waited for Henry to come home.



* * *



An hour later, when the sun tinged the sky dark red, a passerby noticed Milo’s and Henry’s bodies in the street (the Hunters had taken their friend home to be buried): one was headless, and the other might as well have been. But the latter was still breathing. The passerby called 911; an ambulance picked Henry up, took him to the hospital he’d been at the previous night. Upon examination, the paramedics on duty quickly figured out what he was, had seen plenty of his kind during the course of their jobs, but since there had never been any clear directive about how to handle them – and since the memory of treating them would fade from their minds like a photograph in the sun, anyway – they just treated them like they were normal people in need of assistance. Let someone else deal with them once they got to the hospital.

Henry woke up a little during the bumpy ride. He wondered briefly what his percentage was now. He guessed it wasn’t a hundred percent because if it had been, shouldn’t… something have already happened? He wondered, too, if maybe Milo had been taken in another ambulance. Maybe Henry would see him at the hospital.

Henry closed his eyes, wished he were outside again, feeling the night’s fat snowflakes falling gently on his lips.



* * *



Again – hospital green.

And again, the same nurse. His girlfriend, Faye.

“You here again?” she said, smiled a little, leaned over Henry, fluffed his pillow. Faye was used to seeing Henry brought in to the hospital, had come to relax about it much more than when they’d first started dating. Back then, about a year ago, she regularly panicked, didn’t know how to react, what to do, what to say. But you get used to anything, as the saying goes. She knew what Henry was – to a certain extent, anyway. Her repeated exposure to him – day in, day out – helped shore up his personality in her mind, like sandbags against a flood. In this case, the flood was a mysterious memory wipe that came, presumably, from the same place the bodies of loved ones went when they vanished.

Henry’s mouth felt stuffed with cotton, his head packed with burnt chestnuts. “Sure looks that way. Not for long, though, I suspect, once the doctors get wind of it.”

Faye said nothing, just kept smiling.

Looking up at her pretty face, Henry suddenly remembered something Milo had said on the phone last night: You need a woman’s touch over there, my friend. Someone to bring some fucking life to that shitty little hole you call home.

And he decided to give it a shot… before his head fully cleared and he was capable of talking himself out of it.

“Hey, uh, so, when I’m feeling better and stuff, you wanna maybe, I don’t know…” Shit, this was going well. “Like, kinda… fucking, um, move in with me?”

A few seconds passed. Faye smiled wide, said, “Yes.”

Henry was blushing, and was prepared to backpedal the moment her refusal was out of her mouth. When she didn’t refuse, he didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t banked on an acceptance.

“Uhh, OK,” he said. Then trying to act cool, added, “Good deal.”

Henry, wanting desperately to change the subject now, asked where Milo was.

“Henry, listen…” Faye said, her smile quickly vanishing, brow furrowing. She took his hand, squeezed it. “Milo’s dead.”

Faye waited a beat, swallowed, locked eyes with Henry. “I’m so sorry.”

Inside Henry, metal shifted. Bullets and shot moved slowly, piecing themselves together. Like a puzzle.

“I, uh… I have to go now,” he said, some base instinct taking over. A need to be home. To be warm, somewhere familiar.

Henry swung the sheets back from his legs, got to his feet. Staggered, nearly fell. Faye caught him, steadied him.

“Henry, your head. Jesus. You can’t just walk out of here with–”

“Jesus Christ, I’ll be fine!” he shouted in Faye’s face.

Henry took a breath, put a hand to his head – the walls swam and rippled. “Look, I’m sorry, Faye, I just… I can’t be here right now. I need to…” He moved forward, hugged Faye hard, kissed her head. “I’ll call you later, OK? We’ll sort out moving in and all that, and we’ll figure out Milo’s… arrangements, or whatever.”