Immobility

dried food. But where was Mahonri? He’d been asleep himself before Mahonri had even lain down. The man could be anywhere.

He rolled very carefully over onto his side, orienting himself as well as he could toward the sound of the man’s breathing. He lifted his head, then propped himself up on an elbow. The cot creaked underneath him and he froze, stayed there half-raised, listening. But the breathing didn’t seem to have changed.

He placed the knife on the cot just beside him, against his belly. Very slowly he reached out, waving his fingers through the air. They met no resistance. He extended his hand a little farther, did it again. Still nothing. And again, his hand a little more tentative this time, expecting to touch something. Still nothing. He leaned out and down a little, the cot creaking, and extended his arm farther, and this time, halfway along his arc, he brushed something.

It took him a moment to realize it was fabric, a moment more to decide it was the man’s tunic. He drew his hand back just a little, moved it back along its arc, stretching a few inches farther. This time he touched something soft and cloudlike that he thought at first was a blanket, then prodded it enough for it to be clear it was a pillow. He stretched farther, lifting his hand, very careful now, and brushed flesh.

He stopped, hesitated, but the breathing hadn’t changed. He moved his hand again, inch by inch, until he brushed flesh again and pulled back slightly, then moved it over again, just a little, just a little, until at last he felt the man’s breath against the palm of his hand.

He moved the hand down a little, near where he expected the throat to be. He held his hand like that, the muscles in his shoulder starting to tighten uncomfortably as he tried to fix in his mind exactly how far his hand was stretched, where it was exactly. And then, quickly, he drew the hand back long enough to grab the knife.

He lashed out, felt the blade cut, pass through something. Mahonri made a gagging sound and then screamed, his words lost in a fit of choking. Horkai stabbed into the dark again, connected with something, and Mahonri was flailing, striking at his hands, and the knife clattered away. Something struck the cot and overturned it with a bang, and he was trapped between the cot and the wall while, on the other side Mahonri was screaming in earnest, his body thrashing. Horkai pushed the cot into him and tried to clamber over it, but was struck down. And then suddenly he heard the sound of Mahonri up on his feet, stumbling, knocking into the boxes in the back of the room, no longer screaming now but groaning. He heard the slow sounds of the man’s footsteps and then something struck the upturned cot and the next thing he knew, something heavy and squirming was on top of him, crushing him, and he was trying to rein in his panic. Oh fuck, he thought and struck out once, then again. He groped around, trying to find the keeper’s throat, realized he had his hands wrapped around his thigh. He tried to squirm out from under, tried to squirm around, found a hand holding his head down against the floor, his skull beginning to ache.

Just a few inches from his face, the sound of labored breathing, the slight wind of breath, something warm leaking onto his face and neck. The breathing caught and stopped for an instant and then came again, with a sigh. “Why?” said Mahonri’s voice, little more than a whisper now, barely anything he could hear. And then, without another word, he collapsed.

* * *

IT FELT LIKE IT TOOK FOREVER for him to work free of the body. Groping around in the dark, panting and slightly deranged, it took even longer for him to find the wheelchair where Mahonri had folded it up near the front of the shack. The dark was full of figures now, always just out of reach, and as he worked desperately, he felt them swirling around him, surrounding him, brushing their hands over his skin just as he had done to Mahonri. He gave a shiver of revulsion, shook his head. He was beginning to hear voices as well, very quiet, very distant, but still there, and he had started to wonder if Mahonri was really dead after all. Within that haze of panic, he felt like he was shaping the wheelchair out of nothingness, imagining it in the dark, and he was surprised when he finally had it unfolded. He managed to lift himself up into it and found that it held his weight, that it seemed real and he could begin to imagine he might one day be safe.

Carefully, he wheeled along the walls until he felt first the folded chairs, then the pile of boxes, collapsed and scattered now. The floor lamp was harder to find; it had been knocked over in the struggle and he rolled back and forth for some time before finally touching it with a wheel and groping it up. He felt all over it, looking for a switch, but found nothing. Finally, out of desperation, he tore one of the LED bundles free and watched it light up in his hand.

The inside of the shack was a shambles. In one corner, near the cot, the wall itself had been pushed out and the wire holding it together had started to come undone. Mahonri was lying crumpled in the corner, not breathing. Blood was smeared all over the ground and over the boxes in the back, on the wall beside the cot as well. The man’s throat was less slit than gouged, torn open just beneath the chin, windpipe gaping. One of his carotids was nicked, the other more or less intact. Horkai looked down and saw that his whole body was drenched in blood.

* * *

SHOULD I FEEL GUILTY? he wondered a few minutes later, forcing the wheelchair along. Should I have regrets? But whether he should or shouldn’t, he didn’t seem to have any. Does that make me a bad person? he wondered. But no, he reminded himself, according to Mahonri, I’m not a person. I’m not a human at all.

He couldn’t decide if this thought seemed reassuring or was all the more terrifying.

19

IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE into either of the two titanium cylinders; their lids were too frosted over. He sat there between them, putting the gloves on, looking at one and then the other, trying to decide which to open. They looked, for all intents and purposes, identical.

Eeny meeny miny mo, he thought, and then chose one. He reached out and turned the unit off and immediately an alarm began to sound. Very quickly he undid the latches and opened the lid, releasing a blast of freezing air.

It was filled with a series of small metal cylinders, each slightly larger and thicker than his middle finger. With the tongs, he turned one around, looking for writing on it, some kind of mark. It was there, but not red; it was blue. He looked at one on the other side of the tank—blue as well.

How long until it starts waking them up? he wondered, listening as the alarm droned on.

Maybe Rasmus had the color wrong, he thought. Carefully he examined another, then another. All blue.

He closed and latched the lid and turned the unit on again. Immediately the alarm stopped. One of the storage units suddenly began making a creaking noise, but whether because it was thawing or freezing again, he wasn’t sure.

He turned to the other unit and flicked it off. The alarm began again. He quickly opened it, and this time saw immediately the red characters on one of the metal cylinders inside. He lifted it carefully out with the tongs and moved it carefully into his gloved hand, then closed the lid of the unit, flicked it back on.

This time the alarm didn’t stop. One of the storage units was humming now, definitely thawing. How long would it take? A long time, he hoped.

How do I carry it? he wondered, looking at the cylinder, and then had an idea. He removed one of his gloves with his teeth, held it open in his lap, and then dropped the cylinder in. It lodged in the glove’s thumb. Carefully he rolled the end of the glove down to seal it and then tucked it into his shirt. Then, spinning the wheelchair around, he moved toward the exit.

* * *

THE OUTER DOOR OPENED despite the alarm. He managed to bump the wheelchair over its lip and out into the hall. Turning around, he nudged the door closed, was pleased when it eased its way back into place, though less pleased when he didn’t hear the lock click.

A pale light was leaking far into the tunnel. It was dawn or perhaps slightly later. He rolled down the hall as quickly as he could, until he reached the metal grate. From there, he shouted for the mules until finally they lumbered into view.

“Where did you find a wheelchair?” asked Qatik.