longer out by Verne’s house, but directly in her ear.
She yelped shrilly, jerking away from him, and the bank gave way beneath her. She had a moment’s disbelief and weightlessness and then she splatted down face-first into ten inches of tar-black garbage water and alien pee. It got in her hair. It went down her shirt and soaked into her slacks. It splashed into her ears and her nose and her mouth. Right into her mouth.
He started laughing as she sat, spitting and gagging in shock. Not mean laughter, either, not really. Great big, delighted laughter. The kind that ought to have a joke attached to it.
She burst into tears, hating him, and started snatching up papers.
From there into the field, dripping and reeking, stumbling over rocks and half-buried debris, chasing every fluttering flat of white into the reservoirs, wading knee-deep in sticky sediment that sucked the shoes off her feet and kept them, climbing through the rusted pipes, limping over jagged spears of metal and broken chunks of concrete, and hearing at every step the gleeful hoots and mocking buzzes of Samaritan, watching her.
It felt like it took hours.
“You missed a few,” he said when she crawled back over the culvert.
“Fuck you.”
“Ordinarily, I’d be tempted.” His claspers twitched outward and retracted with an exaggerated flinch. “But that is really killing the mood.”
She turned her back on him, started walking.
“Where are you going?” He stepped in front of her and again when she tried to go around him. “You don’t have to go.”
“I nuh-need a sh-shower.”
“You certainly do,” he agreed. “But you don’t have to go. I’ve got a shower.” His claspers brushed at her, flicking up under the hem of her skirt to nudge with surprising force at her bare thighs. “Don’t play coy,” he said as she stumbled back. “You’ve been showing me your ass all day.”
“Leave me alone!” she shouted. Shouted, at a client. She tried to push past him, but he caught her by the arm and his grip was as good as handcuffs. “Get off me!”
“I’m not on you.” His palps spread and snapped. “Yet. Come on, caseworker. Let’s get those nasty things off you and get something nasty in you.”
She swung her briefcase at him. He knocked it aside, pushed his claspers a final time under her skirt, and let her go.
“Run,” he said.
She fled, fresh sobs tearing from her chest and Samaritan’s buzzing laughter chasing her down the causeway. The checkpoint guard saw her coming and still made her wait, sauntering out from his little hut to look at her badge like he hadn’t just seen it, like she wasn’t clinging to the gate while the sun baked the stink of ditch-water and alien piss into her clothes, her shoes, her hair.
When he finally let her through, she ran to the monorail station, but her efforts to wash up in the restroom there were grossly insufficient. She couldn’t bring herself to board, knowing that every other passenger in that narrow, closed car would have to see her, smell her. She walked home, half a mile through IBI’s clean, ultra-modern homes, bringing the stink of Cottonwood with her. There were kids in the landscaped yards, staring. There were cars, slowing down as they passed her by.
Once home, she stripped and showered and hung on Fagin’s neck and bawled until she used up all her moisture and had to stop.
Sitting there on her kitchen floor with Fagin pressed in canine sympathy against her chin and the stuffy headache that comes from too much crying swelling behind her eyes, Sarah thought about quitting. Sure, they might sue her, but they couldn’t take money she didn’t have, so what was the worst that could happen? It’d be a black mark on her permanent record (right there next to that note from the seventh-grade when she’d stolen a dead frog from the biology lab and put it in stuck-up Trina Bridgewall’s pudding), but so what? The places where she usually worked didn’t care whether their
She yelped shrilly, jerking away from him, and the bank gave way beneath her. She had a moment’s disbelief and weightlessness and then she splatted down face-first into ten inches of tar-black garbage water and alien pee. It got in her hair. It went down her shirt and soaked into her slacks. It splashed into her ears and her nose and her mouth. Right into her mouth.
He started laughing as she sat, spitting and gagging in shock. Not mean laughter, either, not really. Great big, delighted laughter. The kind that ought to have a joke attached to it.
She burst into tears, hating him, and started snatching up papers.
From there into the field, dripping and reeking, stumbling over rocks and half-buried debris, chasing every fluttering flat of white into the reservoirs, wading knee-deep in sticky sediment that sucked the shoes off her feet and kept them, climbing through the rusted pipes, limping over jagged spears of metal and broken chunks of concrete, and hearing at every step the gleeful hoots and mocking buzzes of Samaritan, watching her.
It felt like it took hours.
“You missed a few,” he said when she crawled back over the culvert.
“Fuck you.”
“Ordinarily, I’d be tempted.” His claspers twitched outward and retracted with an exaggerated flinch. “But that is really killing the mood.”
She turned her back on him, started walking.
“Where are you going?” He stepped in front of her and again when she tried to go around him. “You don’t have to go.”
“I nuh-need a sh-shower.”
“You certainly do,” he agreed. “But you don’t have to go. I’ve got a shower.” His claspers brushed at her, flicking up under the hem of her skirt to nudge with surprising force at her bare thighs. “Don’t play coy,” he said as she stumbled back. “You’ve been showing me your ass all day.”
“Leave me alone!” she shouted. Shouted, at a client. She tried to push past him, but he caught her by the arm and his grip was as good as handcuffs. “Get off me!”
“I’m not on you.” His palps spread and snapped. “Yet. Come on, caseworker. Let’s get those nasty things off you and get something nasty in you.”
She swung her briefcase at him. He knocked it aside, pushed his claspers a final time under her skirt, and let her go.
“Run,” he said.
She fled, fresh sobs tearing from her chest and Samaritan’s buzzing laughter chasing her down the causeway. The checkpoint guard saw her coming and still made her wait, sauntering out from his little hut to look at her badge like he hadn’t just seen it, like she wasn’t clinging to the gate while the sun baked the stink of ditch-water and alien piss into her clothes, her shoes, her hair.
When he finally let her through, she ran to the monorail station, but her efforts to wash up in the restroom there were grossly insufficient. She couldn’t bring herself to board, knowing that every other passenger in that narrow, closed car would have to see her, smell her. She walked home, half a mile through IBI’s clean, ultra-modern homes, bringing the stink of Cottonwood with her. There were kids in the landscaped yards, staring. There were cars, slowing down as they passed her by.
Once home, she stripped and showered and hung on Fagin’s neck and bawled until she used up all her moisture and had to stop.
Sitting there on her kitchen floor with Fagin pressed in canine sympathy against her chin and the stuffy headache that comes from too much crying swelling behind her eyes, Sarah thought about quitting. Sure, they might sue her, but they couldn’t take money she didn’t have, so what was the worst that could happen? It’d be a black mark on her permanent record (right there next to that note from the seventh-grade when she’d stolen a dead frog from the biology lab and put it in stuck-up Trina Bridgewall’s pudding), but so what? The places where she usually worked didn’t care whether their
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