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Nick should have known that there was something wrong with the woman from the moment he saw her.
He picked his way through what used to be Boston. He still hadn’t gotten used to it, to the ruins that used to be his home. Occasionally he saw something recognizable, but he couldn’t decide if the familiarity made it better or worse.
He tried not to think about it. His employer, a more-brawn-than-brains sort of guy by the name of Brent, put him on the task of fixing the cash register in his weapons shop. It needed a new drawer spring, and if Nick wanted to earn his keep, he would find one.
He scanned the streets for a promising store, someplace that hadn’t been picked over too many times. It was slow work. Even in broad daylight, it would have been hard to find; Nick had the misfortune of getting caught in the city at night. On top of the fact that he could barely see, there was always a firefight echoing through the streets. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he happened to wander too close to the conflict. No one in town would sell him a gun. Not even his employer. Then again, he might be bulletproof; but then again, he did not want to find out.
It had been nothing short of shocking to go from that first little, rural settlement to the bigger town by the coast. The people were different. Nobody called him by name here—now he was just “synth” or “‘bot” or, more often than not, “hey you.” He figured that was what he got for wanting to see more of the Wasteland, and no one said finding your own way was easy.
He glanced through the windows of a glass storefront. The still-standing mannequins told him that it used to be a women’s clothing store. The buildings on the other side of the street made a gap large enough to let in plenty of moonlight; he decided it was as good a place as any to look.
One of the mannequins had fallen and blocked the nearest door, so he stepped through a broken window instead. Glass crunched under his heels as he entered. After a few fruitless tries to be stealthy, he found that treading lightly here wasn’t an option. He made his way behind the counter. There was no cash register on its surface, but he did find one on the floor nearby. He removed the drawer; when he did so, a little bell rang. He unscrewed the spring and stuck it in his pocket.
Another bell rang. Not from the register; it came from the door. He froze. In the old days, he prided himself on staying calm even when his heart raced with fear. Now all he had was the calm and the fear. He squinted through the darkness. The door had opened a few inches, hitting the brass bell above it, but he could not tell why.
Then the mannequin moved.
It had been slumped against the door; now it was crouched beside it. Its arm was caught in the flat, bar handle. It gave a feeble tug, causing the bell to ring again.
He chanced to step closer. It wasn’t a mannequin at all, but a woman, and from her bald scalp, definitely a ghoul.
“You alright, miss?” he said. She remained silent. “Miss?”
Something was off about her; he wondered if she could even hear him. Maybe she was just dazed from being trapped for a long time. He took on the quiet, soothing tone he had used dozens of times to talk down people who about to do something reckless.
“I’m going to help you out of there, alright?” he said. “You’ll be free before you know it.”
Even in the dark, he could see dark streaks on the glass leading down from her hand. If he had a stomach, the sight would have made him sick. How long had she been stuck there? How much had she hurt herself trying to get away? He swallowed down the unnerving thoughts and reached out to her.
She jolted back, slamming the door shut and ringing the bell again. The movement reminded him more of a frightened dog than a human. He reached out again, slower this time.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he said. “I’m going to make this as painless as possible.”
He took her hand—cold, withered almost to the bone—and spread her fingers flat so they would slip out from behind the bar. After a minute of careful work, she was free.
She let her injured hand drop to the ground. Nick expected her to inspect the wound or hold it close or at least react to the fact that she wasn’t stuck anymore, but she did not. She just sat there, her breathing accented by an unhealthy rasping sound.
“Do you have anywhere to go?” He knelt beside her and took her arm. “Come on, let’s get you on your feet.”
She slumped against him, but stood nonetheless. He tried not to cringe at her smell. It had clearly been some weeks since her last bath. Again, he wondered how long she had been trapped. Suddenly she went rigid, her eyes fixed on the arm that held her. Some kind of animal—a dog, maybe—had taken a chunk out of his skin when he first woke up in that junkyard all those weeks ago; it occurred to him how strange it must look to her.
“Oh, you’ve probably never seen a synth before, have you?” he tried to sound light-hearted. “If you’re shocked, imagine my surprise when I woke up like this. I used to be human, like you.”
He hesitated on the last words. He could not say why.
She did not seem to be listening. Her head dipped closer and closer to his arm.
“You—uh—you want a closer look? That’s fine, just be careful that you don’t—”
Before he could finish, the woman became a blur of motion. She jerked his hand up to her mouth and sunk her teeth into his skin.
He flinched away. The bite stung, but hadn’t broken the skin.
“What the hell—?”
She lunged at him. They crashed to the floor. Nick struggled to hold her at bay; he didn’t want to harm her, but she threw herself at him relentlessly, howling with rage, her long nails scrabbling for anything to tear. Her bony fingers found the seam on the right side of his neck. She dug in. With a series of pops, the skin pried loose.
Nick let out a yelp, more out of surprise than anything. He grasped her wrist and tore her away from him. She strained to pull free. He held tight. Then she paused, her gurgling breath ragged with exertion.
“Listen,” he said, a little short on breath from the shock, “I don’t know what’s going on with you, but if you could quit trying to gnaw on me for a minute, I might be able to help.”
She growled and twitched. Though shadows hid her face, he could tell by the slow movement of her head that she was looking him over. Was she debating whether or not to trust him? Or was she scanning for a weakness?
“Let me help you,” he said.
She coughed. He turned away from the foul breath without realizing how doing so exposed his neck. She howled and struck at him. Her teeth dug into his skin. First it was just pressure, unyielding—then the pressure tore through. He screamed. Damage alerts flooded his thoughts. He pushed her away, but she held on. Then she twisted, and with a vicious turn of her head, ripped the skin off.
Frenzied with panic, he kicked her off and backed away. He pressed his hands to his neck to staunch the blood flow. Then he realized there was none. Just one more thing to get used to.
The woman launched herself at him again. He flung out his arm to stop her—and caught her by the throat. She thrashed and flailed, trying to get closer. Her nails carved deep scores into the remaining skin on his arm. Still he held tight. She would give it up soon, or at least get tired, he was sure. She never did. Minutes passed with her struggling, her voice a mere hiss, stifled as it was. Nick did not want to watch the gut-wrenching scene, but he could not afford to look away. She seized him by the shoulders.
In a single burst of effort, she tried to tug him closer. But his arm was locked in position.
There came a snapping sound.
Her body went limp. It tumbled to the floor beside him.
All his systems were humming. It was over, but he could not say if that made it better or worse. For a moment, all he could do was lie there and watch her unmoving form.
“Miss…?” he murmured.
He got to his knees and placed his fingers tentatively to her pulse. There was none.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice shaking. “I’m so sorry—”
He could not finish. The humming had grown to a painful rattle. He felt sick—or maybe it was just the memory—whatever it was, it forced him to double over in agony. He couldn’t breathe. He tried to keep in mind that he didn’t need to. It had all happened so fast. It wasn’t fair. He just wanted to help. He hadn’t meant for her to—
A dry heave contorted his body.
He clenched his fists and tried to get control. It wasn’t like this was new territory for him; back in Chicago, he had shot and killed a slave trader who specialized in selling little girls. The man had deserved it—he had deserved it. He had deserved it. Yet it was a month before Nick could get a full night’s sleep.
Now this woman lay dead at his feet. She didn’t deserve it. Did she? No, she was just out of her mind. She was just sick. And he couldn’t help her. He didn’t know how. He had let her die, all because he didn’t know.
It made him want to scream.
He took a deep breath instead. His hand shook as he ran it over his scalp. In spite of the overwhelming desire to stay where he was, unmoving, he forced himself to his feet. What’s done is done, he told himself. What’s done is done. What’s done is done.
He checked that the spring was still in his pocket, then left the store, the broken glass crunching under his heels.
It was just as well that he couldn’t sleep anymore. He wouldn’t have slept that night anyway.