A Perfect Machine(65)

Henry looked at Milo blankly for a moment. Then: “What did I do?”

“Her husband died, Henry,” Milo said. Because of you, he thought but didn’t say. “And then she died of her… her wounds,” he finished.

Inside Henry, something broke. Up till now, he’d been effectively distanced from nearly everything that had happened – the results of his rapid transformation into something he couldn’t possibly understand. The strains on his mind and body were incredible, but he’d gained a sort of equilibrium during the recent respite from activity – from the growth spurts and the constant running away from everything he was becoming.

Flashes of the scenes in the apartment building blitzed through his brain, and he knew Margaret Shearman and her husband were not the only ones dead because of him.

He felt a sadness so profound settle in his chest that he didn’t know if he could move at all, let alone continue running. Tears were no longer physically possible, it seemed, but grief assailed him where he sat on the floor of this abandoned subway tunnel. It gathered in his heart, immobilizing him.

Milo saw the shift in Henry’s demeanor, but didn’t know what he could do to make him feel better. He had killed people – some innocent, some not so innocent. Maybe through no direct fault of his own, but he was responsible. All Milo could do was try to let his friend deal with it the best way he knew how. And better still was to just keep running.

Always keep running.

“Come on. Let’s use the tracks themselves, Henry. At least there you can fully stand up. He moved to take Faye’s hand, started walking toward the tracks. “Seriously. Hanging out by the entrance is ridiculous. We need to get deeper inside.”

Henry nodded once, slowly. He got to his feet, then, back bent under the ceiling. But instead of turning around to follow Milo and Faye, he moved one hand toward Margaret Shearman’s body, did his best using his huge steel fingers to arrange her corpse so that she was lying flat, instead of crumpled in a heap.

The wind whistled through the tunnels as the storm aboveground raged on.

He turned, then, and followed his friends into the deepening darkness beyond.



* * *



Back at the warehouse, Marcton assembled his crew. They sat on crates and boxes, as they’d done when Palermo had killed Carl Duncan. It seemed like years ago.

Marcton stood in the middle of the group, pacing, still hopped up on adrenaline from the night’s events. He brought everyone up to speed as quickly as he could, then opened the floor to suggestions about how to proceed. He had some ideas himself, but they were fairly weak, and he wanted to get input from his people in case something they said bolstered his own plan – if “plan” could even be applied to the handful of halfbaked notions bumbling about in his head.

As for the term “his people,” he realized that’s exactly what they were now – his. With Palermo gone, he was now officially in charge. The idea simultaneously thrilled and terrified him. Palermo had a certain weight to him. A gravitas that he wasn’t at all sure he could muster. Not that he had much choice. He knew that to effectively lead, people had to believe in you. Really believe. They needed to feel that what you said and did was what was best for the group – whatever group you might be trying to lead. And this group had history. This group – and Kendul’s Hunters, too – went back a long, long way.

As if thinking about Kendul at that moment had somehow summoned him, he walked through the back door, his own crew in tow. Marcton had immediately called him again upon learning of Palermo’s death. Even under more normal circumstances, Kendul would’ve been called due to his and Palermo’s long relationship, but these were nothing even close to normal circumstances, and Marcton knew he could use all the help he could get. So not only was Kendul invited, so were all his Hunters.

For Marcton’s Runners it felt bizarre and vaguely uncomfortable to be so close to the Hunters. As they filtered into the warehouse, the air itself seemed to stiffen somehow, became harder to breathe. A certain tightening in the muscles that every man and woman in this warehouse felt deep in his or her bones. There was an understanding between the crews – and they knew they’d all been brought together for a purpose that profoundly affected them all – but the predator/prey dynamic was ingrained, and came with no on/off switch.

“Marcton,” Kendul said as he approached. He extended his hand. Marcton took it, then drew him in close. The men embraced briefly, slapped each other’s backs, the clapping sound echoing loudly around the rafters.

“Kendul,” Marcton said, returning the greeting, stepped back and began pacing again. He found it difficult to catch any of the thoughts whizzing around in his head and, as a result, his speech was even more clipped than usual, as if the act of providing additional details was just too taxing. He quickly filled Kendul and the Hunters in on what had happened.

Then: “Thoughts?” Marcton said to the room. “Anyone?”

A man sitting cross-legged on one of the stacks of skids piled up nearby cleared his throat, said, “Well. We fucking kill it.”

A few chuckles, some uncomfortable shuffling. The man smirked, glanced around, apparently happy with his contribution.

Marcton said, “Insightful,” and gave the man a withering glare that wiped the smirk off his face. “Anyone else wanna tell jokes? If so –” he lifted an arm, pointed “– there’s the fucking door.”