The Shibboleth by John Hornor Jacobs

you and you are me, though we always disagree, me is you and you is she …
    At this point, I can’t feel anything except the dull tug of flesh and my personal need for sleep. Yet the tension in the hall seems palpable. The temperature has risen, and the air is so muggy it feels like we’re submerged in some sluggish underwater seascape. I move slowly, shifting in the cot, watching, sheened in sweat.
    It’s time to go.
    The boy stops singing as a thin young man approaches and stands over him, saying something under his breath that I can’t make out.
    â€œ
I am you and you is she
—” the boy says, loud enough for me to hear.
    I glance at the bull, who’s lifted his face away from his phone, squinting past me down the length of the hall.
    The standing boy raises his hands, and I can see now thathe’s got a pillow clutched in them. His silhouette is almost the caricature of a murderer, a logo for the Smotherers Association.
    But the boy pops up, off the cot, faster than you can imagine, screeching, “
THOUGH WE ALWAYS DISAGREE
—” and barrels into the other one, their faces coming together with a thud and twisting into something looking like a manic homecoming kiss. He’s pushing him back against the far wall, hands drawing him tight into an embrace, pushing his face into the boy’s, mouth to mouth. The lanky boy makes a muffled bellow, falling backward, and I realize it’s not a kiss. But I guess the bull realizes the same thing and he barrels past me, hand going to his Taser, bellowing himself.
    I don’t wait to see if he’s bitten the poor fucker’s tongue completely off. I fumble under my cot’s covers until I have the card in my hand, and I move as quickly as I can, a slow sluggish shamble, toward the exit.
    There’s yelling now behind me, and I feel like I should look, see what’s happening, if there are any bulls coming after me. I reach the door—feeling like I’ve just swum through fifteen feet of molasses—raise my fist, clutching the key card, and swipe it. It’s an eternity before the little light at the top of the keypad turns green. I pull the door open and step through.

    I haven’t really thought this out.
    Once the door shuts behind me, sending echoes up and down the stairwell, I realize I have no idea where these steps lead and no time to figure out where I’ll exit. But I head down the steps—I can only hope that there are windows I can peek through so I don’t have to open doors blindly.
    The clack and swoosh of a door opening below me and the sound of the footfalls and heavy breath that comes with climbing steps reaches my ears. I retreat, heading back up. Who the hell would take the stairs when there are elevators?
    I keep following the stairs up, making left turn after left turn, trying to stay quiet and get a glimpse of the person below me in the gap between flights. But I can’t see anything except a white hand on the balustrade and a flash of nurse’s blues. Can’t tell if it’s a man or woman. But it doesn’t matter anyway.
    I remember, once, another chase in a stairwell, with Quincrux and his multitude of slaves streaming blood from their noses, marching after me with limps, and that gives me a little tremor.
Things happen in patterns, child
, Quincrux said.
    I’ve had to use people—I’ve taken and used them just like Quincrux to
escape Quincrux
. But this time the shibboleth is locked away, and I’m tired and underfed. This time I just have to sack up and get out, alone.
    I rise, taking steps two by two. It’s amazing what your body can do, even on drugs. My blue-slippered feet make padding sounds as I ascend. Looking up in the space between flights, I can see we’re coming to the end of the line. Taking a left and another, I end up at a blank door with a bar release.
    I stop, listen again, blood surging in my temples, hot breath blasting