“Is this too low for you? You prefer the high ground, right?” I shine my flashlight at him as he nods. “Will you be all right?” He rolls his finger in a circle, which I interpret as “Let’s get on with it.” It’s strange how familiar many of these signs are to me now.
If he’s some sort of machine, I think as I walk, then why would they make him so he can’t talk? Surely that’s a limitation his makers should have thought of. Perhaps I could ask him about it later. Now is probably not the best time. I think of the weeks we spent in the comfortable penthouse when I could have been learning to communicate with him better, when I could have been asking him every possible question. But instead I seethed with anger, avoided him out of fear and disgust, or wasted time trying to make him feel bad. All those years of effort I put into trying to contain and channel my rage through martial arts and philosophy came to nothing, I guess, when it mattered. Thinking of it makes me want to kick something.
We slosh through a fetid puddle and soon we are up to our ankles in suspiciously oily water. I take back what I said about the chatter. It’s creepy down here with nothing to listen to but my thoughts. To fill the silence I start to chatter myself and hope that August doesn’t mind.
“I used to be afraid of the dark, you know.” Stupid thing to say, but the echo of my voice off the weeping walls provides a bit of atmosphere. “I guess in a world without electricity that’s a pretty crippling phobia. Darkness is a natural thing, after all. Like death.” His feet slosh behind mine. “Why is the electricity off anyway? Do you guys bomb the power stations? Wait, was it like one of those, what are they called, EMPs? An electromagnetic pulse? Those antiterrorist nuts used to talk about that. You guys showed them, huh? Way to incite terror. Kill everyone. That’s pretty terrifying.”
We walk in silence for several minutes during which my face burns. I don’t even know if it’s anger or shame at this point. God, if we have to walk back to the base, it will take weeks. I’m going to lose my mind, being stretched out between resenting him and needing him and feeling sorry for him and wishing he were dead. And wishing I were dead. When finally I can’t help but release a shaky sigh, he gives my shoulder a squeeze. Even through my coat and sweaters I can feel his hand is hot. Unnaturally hot, like an iron or a kettle. If it weren’t for the thick layers of clothes, it feels like it might burn me.
Stopping, I turn and shine my flashlight at him. In the near dark his armored plates disappear into shadows somehow so I can barely see him. He drops his hand from my shoulder and lowers the rifle he carries, tilting his head to the side.
“Are you a machine?” I’ve asked this before, but this is one of the questions he walked away from. “Answer me this time.”
He makes a sign with his hand, moving his fingers like he is pressing buttons or levers.
“Machine, right. Well? Are you a machine?”
He sighs and, after a moment, shrugs.
“What do you mean? How can you not know?”
Reaching forward, he taps me on the shoulder.
You. Machine?
“No, I’m not. I’m a human being, of course.”
He simply raises his hand to form a question without any words attached to it. I somehow know he’s asking me Are you sure? I walk on, unable to find the right answer to that. A moment later, his hand appears on my shoulder again. Is it so odd that he doesn’t know what he is? If someone had asked me a year ago what my purpose was and why I was here, I wouldn’t have had a clue. I would have shrugged like the surly teenager I am, neglected my homework, and slumped into a chair to waste more time blasting space zombies, all the while slowly becoming one. Outside the dojo, was I any less a mindless machine than August? And inside the dojo all I ever wanted was a win for myself. August was part of a mission at least, part of an encroaching army that had a shared goal, a plan, and a pattern of operations.
Space zombies. That’s funny.
I shove his hand from my shoulder, but a minute later it reappears. I wonder how we would look from far away, if we look like two Nahx strolling about their business of ridding the Earth of human scum. I imagine myself joining this mission, firing darts, and laying waste to a civilization. I know it took thousands of years to build, but maybe it wasn’t all that great anyway. Maybe we deserved what we got. And I might like being a Nahx. I’ve always preferred wearing dark colors anyway.
As though he knows what I’m thinking, he squeezes my shoulder again.
With nothing but the circle of light in front of us to look at, it’s easy for my mind to conjure other images. I picture August reaching out to the left with his hand, leaning on the wall, on furniture, reaching for something that is not there. Something, or someone. Someone. I think of the way the Nahx walked in those fuzzy videos, one with their hand on the other’s shoulder. The one where the head disintegrated. And that girl who lost her head had someone leaning on her, too, once, I imagine.
I really hate this tunnel. It’s dark and wet and making me maudlin and stupid.
“Who was it?” I say to August eventually, when I can no longer resist. “The one you reach for? When you are upset or in pain, you reach to the left. Who are you reaching for? Someone you used to walk with, like this?”
He grips my shoulder hard and pulls me to a stop.
“Never mind,” I say quickly. “Forget it. It’s not my business.”
Turning my flashlight to him, I can see he is looking away from me, though his hand is still on my shoulder. I don’t know why I keep talking. It’s as though there is some bridge that needs crossing that I need to draw us over if we’re to get where we’re going.
“Was it a girl? The girl you traveled with?”
He nods, still looking away. My flashlight illuminates his profile, which in its lack of detail, still looks disarmingly human. A strong chin, the sweep of a nose, even a slight brow ridge in a permanent frown. He sighs then, a long growling sigh, which resonates down the tunnel.
“Did you love her?” I don’t know what the hell is happening to my mouth. It seems to be proceeding without any reference to my brain or what might be sensible things to ask him. It’s several long seconds before he nods again, slowly.
I barely take the time to process that this creature, who may or may not be a machine, has admitted to loving someone. “Where is she?”
He takes his hand from my shoulder and draws it across his throat.
Dead.
He puts his hand back on my shoulder and squeezes, letting his head drop and hang down. Then he gives me a little shove. I turn my flashlight forward and walk on, blinking, blinking, and thinking of Edgar Allan Poe.
Zero repeat forever.
Nothing again forever.
Nevermore.
“My boyfriend died too,” I say a few minutes later, for no other reason than I think he should know. He pulls me to a stop, tapping his shoulder where Topher shot him with the arrow, and shakes his head.