The White Angel's Prayer

18. Rust and Rot

< Mildly disturbing scene towards the end. > 

Time seemed to mould together like two clumps of twisting clay. Lucy's feet dragged through the snow, and with every step, her eyes ached, and her vision tunnelled in and out, exacerbated by the blinding whiteness that surrounded them.

Bhu'ja took the lead; his mind had been suspended in a ruminative, brooding silence since the second they left the park. Whether he languished over Lucy's condition, or he was trying to distract himself with some forethought and critical analysis (highly doubtful), was unclear. The male tended to enter a mentally suspended attitude when he grew too contemplative, and it was like nothing existed around him, and the world reciprocated.

Lucy cradled her right hand to her chest as she walked behind him, her weary gaze occasionally lifting to observe Bhu'ja's hunched shoulders and restless fingers. His blood felt like it had suspended the infection in its tracks, but her symptoms didn't appear marginally different. Lucy's muscles had stopped twitching, but her fever only seemed to grow worse.

It occurred to her that her body might perceive Bhu'ja's blood as a threat. Either way, she'd rather die from a toxic reaction than the fungal infection. Lucy wasn't even sure what adverse side effects to look out for — blood transfusions were exceptionally rare, and only a luxury that operational Quarantine Zones could afford. If they ever decided to, that is.

An auto shop sat in front of the train tracks, bracketed merely by a waist-high chain-link fence. It was tightly peppered with an assortment of old, rundown vehicles; abandoned, its work unfinished. Lucy wondered if any of them were at least partly functional; perhaps, then, they could scrounge the keys from somewhere inside the shop and put some considerable distance between them, the city, and G'kuhto, wherever that old fart was.

It hadn't gone over Lucy's head that, even throughout Bhu'ja's sonorous tantrum, G'kuhto hadn't shown his face. No tress nor claw reared its ugly head, and it only served to cast the darkest of doubts over Lucy's mind. She couldn't help but believe that he was waiting for the perfect time, when both of their resolves were at their weakest, most vulnerable points, just so he could spit in their faces.

G'kuhto did it last time — who's not to say he'd do it again?

"Hey, Bhu'ja," Lucy called. Her mouth was dry, and her words were barely above a whisper. The male in question continued his steady trek forward, snow angrily flicking behind him. Lucy swallowed and attempted to project her voice. "Bhu'ja!"

Her call snapped Bhu'ja immediately from his ruminations. He instantly stopped and turned around to look at her, his amber eyes blazingly bright in the mid-morning sunlight. His breaths were almost imperceptible, and he watched her attentively, his gaze minutely flicking down to mentally note her condition.

"There." Lucy pointed at the auto shop and its yard. Her red-rimmed eyes moved to look at the shed in the middle. "Maybe we can find a car."

Doubtful, Bhu'ja supposed, but it was worth the shot should the slim chance turn the odds in their favour. He tilted his head to the side, chittering quietly, and then nodded. If all else failed, then at least he had something to distract himself.

Lucy shuffled towards the chain-link fence as she observed the abundance of vehicles. The snow had already melted off their surfaces, leaving them glistening under the sunlight despite their crummy exteriors. The interiors were in no better shape — weathered with time, some exposed to the elements, others not.

Bhu'ja was the first to vault the fence. His analytic gaze carefully assessed the yard as he strained to listen for any abnormal noises. He cocked his head an inch, and he stared at the long shed for a second before he performed another visual sweep. It seemed there was nothing, or no one, hiding in between or inside the cars.