* * *
When the machete sliced through Milo’s neck, he felt almost human.
With hardly any lead lodged in his neck, the blade sliced clean through, only knocking up against one, maybe two bullets. When his head fell from his shoulders, his eyes blinked one last time. And then he was suddenly floating about four inches off the ground, just hovering, swaying in the cold winter wind. Dead but dreaming.
He stared at his corpse, wished he could reach down, move his body, then grab Henry by the collar, lift him back into the fireman’s carry and move up the street, closer to the warmth in Henry’s apartment. But he knew now that was impossible.
He turned his gaze on Henry’s body, watched his chest move up and down ever so slightly. Still alive. Good. Someone will find you in the morning.
For now, the comforting warmth of Henry’s apartment called to Milo, just three or four blocks away to the north. I’ll see ya soon, Henry. Meet you at home.
Milo drifted up the street, the sensation of not pumping his legs to walk, of not feeling the ground under his feet, was surreal. Whatever he’d become, it was lighter than what he was before. Everything else seemed the same. Eyesight, hearing, thought processes – all working as they had before. Only his sense of touch was gone.
Snow created tingling sensations wherever it filtered through him. One block, two blocks. He passed an old man crumpled in the corner of a storefront, mumbling to himself. The old man paid him no mind. He passed a cat. The cat did not hiss at him. The cat saw nothing, sensed nothing.
The wind died down a little. Milo picked up speed. Rounded a few more corners, then saw Henry’s building ahead. When he got to the bottom of the building, he looked up through the snow, saw Henry’s south-facing apartment window. A dim light glowed inside.
He tried to will himself straight up, felt he could drift right up through the night, coast inside Henry’s apartment through the window like a ghost. But no dice. All he got for his mental effort was a silly look of intense concentration on his face and a sincere flush of embarrassment.
As though people could actually see him trying to fly.
He shook his head, frowned, and floated forward, through the same front door that the living used. Up the stairs, instinctively maintaining the four inches he’d had outside on the street. Up to Henry’s apartment on the third floor. Through the locked door.
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.