Busted Flush

“. . .  Chomp, chomp, chomp . . . ” Sharky turned the corner. “. . . Chew, chew, ch—” He paused when he saw little Zenobia running toward Niobe and Drake in the elevator. “Love to eat them kiddies.” His grin was a flash of serrated enamel as he set off at a loping run. “Yes, yes, yes. Fat boys what I love to eat.”

“Zen! Run!” Niobe punched the button to close the door, but didn’t send the elevator up yet. The doors moved with agonizing slowness. She shielded Drake with her tail. “Drake, get behind me.” Sharky reached for Zenobia, but his fingers passed ineffectually through her mist. He swiped at her, hissing and spitting, as she wafted through the doors.

The doors stopped with just an inch between them. Sharky had wedged three claws into the gap. He slid the rest of his long, pallid digits into the space and pried the doors apart. “Bite they fat-boy heads off . . .”

Niobe used her tail to push Drake as far away from Sharky as the tight space allowed. “Stay away from him!”

Sharky stepped inside. The doors closed. The elevator started moving up. He took another step, shoved Niobe aside, and grabbed Drake—whose eyes had begun to glow—by the collar. “Nibble, nibble, nibble on his fat-boy face.”

Zane flashed the truest black Niobe had ever seen. Drake disappeared.

“What—” Sharky faltered.

Niobe reached for Drake, managed to get a handful of shirt, and yanked him out of the cannibal’s grasp.

Sharky lunged toward the corner where he’d thrown Niobe. But Zenobia leapt onto his back, and the pair dissolved into clouds of mist. The clouds passed harmlessly through Niobe.

Drake reappeared. Niobe shoved him to the opposite corner of the elevator. Zenobia released Sharky. One of his forearms was stuck inside the wall, up to the elbow. He flailed, tugging viciously at his encased limb. It didn’t budge.

“Let me go! Let me go, you bitch!” Niobe pulled Drake near the door, out of Sharky’s reach.

Zane, Zoë, Zenobia, I love you more than I can say. You’re good kids. And I’m proud to be your mom.

We love you, too, Mom. Somewhere down below, Zoë sang an old Vera Lynn song.

Niobe put an arm around Drake. “I’m gonna look out for you, Drake. I promise.” Tears made it sound unconvincing.

The elevator sped up, up, up, until it spat them into a cold, dark desert, big as the world but somehow smaller than her promise.

Mortality’s

Strong Hand

John Jos. Miller

RAY REACHED OUT TO grab the kid, saying, “You’re under arrest,” and Bugsy dissolved like smoke in his hands, green, razor-laced smoke that stung him a hundred times. He grimaced at the pain and the shrill whine of the telephone ringing by his bed stand.

Telephone. Shit. He’d been dreaming again, this time about that asshole Hive. How can you arrest a swarm of wasps? Ray opened his eyes and reached out in the darkness and grabbed the phone. “Yeah.”

“Mr. Ray.” He hated being called mister, but as Attorney General Rodham had explained to him numerous times, his status required it. He’d been director of SCARE—the Special Committee for Ace Resources and Endeavors—for a bewildering half year now. He still wasn’t sure it had been a good idea to take the job, but he hadn’t been able to resist President Kennedy’s request.

“Yeah.”

“Trouble.” Finally free of the cobwebs of nightmare, he recognized Dolan’s voice. Dolan was agent in charge of the night shift. Ray knew it had to be pretty serious to wake him—he squinted at the clock by his bedside—at 3:00 A.M.

“What.”

“There’s been an incident at BICC.”

Ray hated bureaucrateese, something which didn’t endear him to the agency lifers. “Incident?”

He could hear Dolan swallow. “Yes, sir. A riot. Actually, a riot and breakout. We’re still assembling data—”

“Christ. I’ll be right there. Call in everyone. This is going to be a bitch and a half.” Ray hung up the phone and sat up in bed. Why did shit like this always happen at 3:00 A.M.? He’d had just three hours of sleep, but it was the first time in two days he’d managed any at all. He was having trouble sleeping and when he did, he dreamed, and the dreams were worse than the sleeplessness. An arm snaked out from the other side of the bed and went around his flat, corded stomach.

“What is it, sugar—hey!”

He flicked on the overhead light and glanced at the girl. She was lean, blond, and naked with one well-tanned arm thrown up over her eyes, blocking the light. Jenny, from the secretarial pool. He’d been sleeping with blondes lately. Especially lean ones, with long legs and small breasts. The one time he’d taken a busty brunette to his bed had been a disaster. He rubbed his face with his hands. Can’t dwell on this shit, he thought. Don’t have time for it now.

“Sorry, Jen. Emergency. Got to get down to the office.”

She sat up in bed, short blond hair tousled, looking like a sleepy pixie. Ray didn’t notice.

“Oh.”