Blood Pact

for the touch of her life to guide him.

    "VICKI!” Celluci threw himself against the door in impotent fury. Again, and again.

    And again.

    Mouth dry, heart pounding in the too-small cage of her ribs, Vicki slowly backed away. Hands reaching out for her, her dead mother followed. The harsh illumination of the flashlight accentuated the death pallor and threw tiny shadows beside each of the staples across Marjory Nelson's forehead.

    Her feet continued moving for a moment before Vicki realized she wasn't going any farther, that the distance between them was closing. The cold metal curve of the isolation box pressed into the small of her back. Go around! she thought, but she couldn't remember how. She couldn't take her eyes off the approaching figure. Nor could she turn the light away in the hope that it would disappear in the darkness.

    "Stop!”

    Vicki jerked, the sound slapping at her.

    The dead woman, who had been Marjory Nelson, dragged herself forward one more step, then had to obey.

    "Stay!" Catherine, with number nine following close behind her, entered the lab, squinted as she crossed the beam of light, and glared around. "Just look at this place. It'll take days to get it all cleared up." She kicked at a fractured bit of circuit board and turned on Vicki, her movements nearly as jerky as her companion's. "Who are you?”

    Who am I? Her glasses were sliding down her nose. She bent her head until she could push them up with the index finger of her injured hand. Who was she? She swallowed, trying to wet her mouth. "Nelson. Vicki Nelson.”

    "Vicki Nelson?" Catherine repeated, coming closer.

    The tone sent a knife blade down Vicki's spine, although the grad student was still outside the boundary of her vision. This person is insane. Crazy just wasn't a strong enough word for the fractures in Catherine's voice.

    Leaving number nine in the shadows, Catherine crossed into the cone of light and stopped just in front of where Marjory Nelson strained against the compulsion holding her in place. "Dr. Burke told me about you . You wouldn't stop snooping around." The pointed chin rose and the pale blue eyes narrowed. "She wouldn't have tried to terminate the experiments if it wasn't for you. This is all your fault!" The last word became a curse and she threw herself forward, fingers curved to claws, claws reaching for Vicki's throat.

    Self-preservation broke the paralysis. Vicki threw herself sideways, knowing she wasn't going to be fast enough. She felt fingertips catch at her collar, had a sudden look into the pit of madness as, for an instant, Catherine's contorted face filled her vision, then all at once, found herself staggering back, no longer under attack. Sagging against the support of the box, she raised the light, searching for an explanation.

    Catherine dangled from her mother's hands then was tossed, with no apparent effort, to one side.

    It was the sort of rescue that small children implicitly believed their mothers could perform. In spite of everything, Vicki found herself smiling.

    "Way to go, Mom," she muttered, trying to catch her breath.

    Number nine had not understood what the other who was like him was about to do.

    Then he heard her cry out as she struck the floor.

    She was hurt.

    He remembered anger.

    Number nine's first blow shattered ribs, the crack of breaking bone gunshot loud, splinters driven into the chest cavity.

    That first blow would have killed her, had she not already been dead. She staggered under the impact but managed to remain standing. The second blow knocked uplifted arms aside, the third threw her halfway across the lab.

    Vicki struggled to keep the battle in sight, bracing herself on the box and playing the flashlight beam over the room like some kind of demented spotlight operator at a production more macabre than anything modern theater had to offer.

    Nutrient fluid dripped from the ruin of number nine's hands, violence having finished what rot had begun. Glistening curves of bone showed through the destruction of his wrists. He used his forearms like clubs, smashing them down again and again.

    Vicki watched as her mother's body slammed into a metal shelving unit, shelves and contents crashing to the floor. A number of the glass containers seemed to explode on contact with the floor, spewing chemical vapor into the air to mix with the smell of decay.
    As number nine lurched forward, Vicki could stand it no longer.

    "For chrissakes, Mom!" she screamed.