Henry flicked a switch on the inside of the bathroom doorway; a fluorescent light above the sink flickered, shot to life.
He pulled his shirt over his head as he walked in, dropped his pants around his ankles, stepped out of them. He took his underwear off, then stood up straight, turned to his left, saw himself in the mirror. Nearly every inch of his torso was composed of scar tissue; his legs more of the same. There were only small patches of skin left unmarked.
No way I’m even close, Henry thought. Not a chance I’m anywhere near Milo’s percentage… But fine, fuck it, I’ll check.
Fingers trembling, heart thudding, Henry brought his hands up from his sides, placed them gently on his chest… and moved them around in slow circles. He rubbed around his nipples, pushed in near his armpits, squeezed the flesh around what remained of his ribs, sank his fingers deep into his stomach. Both arms. Pressing, concentrating, trying to feel as deeply within his body as possible. It was a crude manner of examination for the information he was trying to obtain, but it was all he and others like him had. Someone had stolen an X-ray machine a few years back (Henry had no idea how), but it broke down – got shot up, actually – so they were back to these hands-only self-examinations.
Down to his legs, pushing, kneading, prodding around the knees. To his calves, the tops of his feet. Standing back up, checking his groin, buttocks, up to his neck, his hands roaming over his scalp as if washing his hair. But feeling gently, listening to the song of his skin.
Steel-jacketed lead. Not pulsing through his veins, but replacing them, replacing flesh, tissue, organs – everything but bone. And even a good portion of that had been shattered, replaced by rows of bullets or clumps of shot.
Everything except skin – the skin remained, but forever changed.
Scarred.
The bullets in his body pushed flush to one another inside him. When he pressed on his abdomen, he felt them clink together. They rippled under the skin of his forearms, writhed in his thighs.
Henry had caught up to Milo – had likely surpassed him. He estimated about ninety-five percent, maybe more. His head was the least-affected part of him, as most of the bullets were naturally aimed at his body, but there was still a lot there.
And when he reached one hundred per cent…
But no one knew what happened then, because no one in living memory had reached one hundred percent. Maybe no one had ever done it. Or at least that’s what the Runners had all been told. Maybe the Hunters knew different.
Henry showered, dressed quickly, flicked on the TV, and stared out the window again at the steadily falling snow. He gathered his thoughts, then dialed Milo’s number.
Milo picked up almost immediately. “Well?”
“Dunno, exactly, of course, but… ninety-five, give or take,” Henry said, sweat on his brow, hands slick. His voice was edged with a nervous tremor.
“Ninety-fucking-five,” Milo whispered, then whistled low. “Holy shit, man.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“So – belief?” Milo asked. “Which crackpot theory do you subscribe to these days? Transformation into a steel kraken? Eternity in some kind of bullet-time hell? Just plain flat-out death? Or maybe you finally show up on God’s radar and he strikes you down for the freak of nature you are. Any or all of the above?”
Henry thought for a moment, chewed his lip. “I don’t know, Milo. I have no clue about any of it.”
The snow blew hard against Henry’s window, whipping up a white storm of flakes that mesmerized him as he stared outside, lost in thought.
“… still there, dipshit?”
“Yeah … yeah, still here, Milo. Gotta go. Have to call Faye, let her know I got home alright. See you at tomorrow’s Run.”
“Alright, see you there, chimp.”
Henry hung up.
On TV, the news had just started. The weatherman called for four inches of snow tonight, another three tomorrow afternoon. Wind chill creating a deep freeze to smash all previous records.
Henry and Milo, frozen metal statues, running every night. Because they had to. Because they all had to.
T W O
This was the only rule that mattered: if you didn’t run every night, someone you loved would disappear. Simple as that. No one knew who took them, or how. But if you didn’t show up for the Run, the next morning they’d be gone without a trace.
It had never happened to Henry or Milo because they’d never missed a Run. But they’d known other people who had, for whatever reason, and they’d watched that person crumble little by little in the weeks and months that followed.
One guy in his mid twenties, Jonathan Witters, an old acquaintance of theirs from high school (the Inferne Cutis – the ridiculously pretentious name of their society – weren’t required to run or hunt until they’d graduated high school) didn’t go to a Run because his mother was sick, dying. He stayed by her side the night of her death. He went home, went to bed with his wife. The next morning, his wife was gone. The blankets were undisturbed, a depression still visible in the pillow where her head had been.