FutureImperfect by Stefan Petrucha Page B

inanimate objects.
    â€œDid you…did you get me out of there?”
    The picture of the clown smiled.
    â€œThanks,” Harry said. He shuffled to a seated position, icy water running down his back. His pants were soaked. He was shivering. He had a dull headache, but the numbness was missing. At least the cold bath seemed to have shaken some of the effects of the drugs out of him.
    Harry looked out at the town. “I’ve got to stop whatever Jeremy’s planning,” he said to the balloon.
    But the clown shook its head. “There’s one thing you have to take care of first.”
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    The printed hand of the clown unfolded itself off the balloon. It swelled to human size and jutted a white-gloved index finger toward Harry’s abdomen.
    â€œThat,” the Fool said.
    â€œWhat? You mean the Quirk-sha-ahhhhh!”
    As the tip of the finger touched Harry’s skin, he felt the shard writhe inside him. Strange, it was usually only in A-time that he felt the thing as a wound. In linear time, the shard manifested as that suicide voice in his head. He sure felt it as a wound now, though, twisting and turning in his cold skin like a piece of molten metal.
    The bastard is changing the rules again!
    Harry stumbled back, away from the finger, into the water. As he did, a red welt rose on his skin, right where the Quirk’s claw had stabbed him. The white finger came forward again. Harry saw his skin sizzle as it touched the mark, and it didn’t stop there. It kept pressing, harder and harder, until it went beneath the skin, probing into his gut, deeper and deeper, until finally, it seem to Harry that it touched the shard itself.
    As a hot pain seared through his abdomen and into his brain, Harry could think only one thing: It’s going to pull it out! It’s going to save me!
    But that’s not what happened. Reaching the tip of the Quirk’s buried claw, the finger didn’t grab; it pushed.
    The Fool didn’t remove the shard. It pushed it further in.
    â€œUngh!” Harry cried.
    Propelled by the white finger, the claw dug deeper into his gut, until it touched the tip of what Harry imagined was his spine.
    Everything went black for a moment, then Harry bolted into a seated position, water dripping from his hair onto his shoulders. He looked at the far-off building, saw how high the sun was in the sky. What was it, late morning now? How long would it take him to get to Billingham?
    The Fool had helped him. It had helped him indeed. There would be no more ambivalence. He would walk, he would run, he would get to where he needed to be, because now, at long last, Harry Keller knew exactly who he was and what he had to do.
    He was a fool, a loser. And what he had to do was walk through the woods, go into town, find the nearest tall building, get to the top…
    â€¦and jump off.
    So Harry Keller sloshed to his feet, left the tunnel, and started walking. A pink clown balloon followed, all on its own, as if it were a small dog nipping at his heels.

9.
    Once Siara stopped thanking Jeremy, the long drive grew quiet. She wanted to ask why he’d changed his mind, why he was doing her this ridiculously wonderful favor, but she was afraid that if she questioned it, it would vanish like a dream. So while he started playing his music, mostly house stuff, gangster rap, and a stray folk song or two, she made idle chat, only really brightening when she saw the white-and-green highway sign indicating they were three miles from Windfree/Billingham.
    It was still morning. She could spend a few hours with Harry and be back in time for the demo easily. Things seemed to be going perfectly, until the sudden slowing of the car brought her attention back to Jeremy.
    â€œWhy are you stopping?”
    â€œSo I don’t ram into all the cars in the traffic jam,” he said, nodding toward his windshield.
    She looked out as the car came to a halt behind a pickup