I can hear Peterson panting behind me, closing the distance with every step. This isn’t a surprise, despite my efforts to tell myself that I could outrun him. He’s fueled by rage and nanomachinery, while I’m nursing two dozen different injuries and have rubber floor mats tied to my feet. I wish I’d taken the time to remove them after Regina went her own way, but like the old saying goes, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. I could do with a horse right now. Heck, I’d settle for a beggar. I could push him in Peterson’s way and make my escape. I’m not proud.
Since I don’t have either a horse or a beggar, though, the whole question’s academic. Right now, my options are limited. I can keep going straight until Peterson catches up to me, or I can dodge off to one side and hope to lose him down an alleyway. I’m not totally sure how I’m going to lose him down an alleyway, since the alleys here are broad and straight, but since he’s definitely going to catch me on the straightaway I might as well give it a shot.
I can’t look back to see how close Peterson is. It’s taking all of my concentration just to keep from tripping over my makeshift shoes as I run. If I try to look over my shoulder, it’s basically guaranteed that I’ll end up sprawling right on my face. Through the rain, I can see an alley up ahead, but I have no idea if he’s close enough to grab me when I slow down to make the turn.
There’s a NO PARKING sign on a pole near the mouth of the alley, and as soon as I spot it, a plan leaps into my mind fully formed. I’ll dodge to the right just as I approach the sign, drawing Peterson that way. Then, as I’m passing the sign, I’ll shoot out my arm, grab the post and use my momentum to swing myself into a ninety-degree turn and sprint off down the alley. I’ll be able to keep going full speed while Peterson ends up overshooting and having to reverse direction.
This is how it all looks in my head. The reality, unfortunately, is somewhat messier. Here’s the way it actually goes down: as I’m coming up on the signpost, I juke right. I catch a glimpse of Peterson over my shoulder as I turn. He’s uncomfortably close, almost in arm’s reach, and I see him scrambling to readjust his direction on the rain-slick pavement to match my maneuver. So far, so good.
I snap my left arm out to snag the pole, and that’s where things go wrong. First of all, it turns out that when you suddenly hang your entire body weight off of one joint, it hurts. There’s a sharp wrenching sensation from my shoulder as my body whips around. I do manage to reorient toward the alley, though, so at least the basic idea works.
But it’s not just physics that’s conspiring against me. The pole I’m swinging myself around isn’t a nice smooth pole like you’d see on a playground. It’s one of those half-a-hexagon metal structures with rows of holes all the way down. They’re standard issue for most roadside signs, so they’re probably very strong and cheap to make, I assume. All I can really say for sure is that they’re not designed for swinging.
When I grab the pole, the tip of my index finger slides into one of those holes. Before I even notice it’s happened, I’m airborne and slinging myself around the pole. This twists the top joint of my finger painfully, trapping it — and by extension, me.
If I had time to reverse direction and circle back around, I’m sure my finger would just pop free the way it went in, probably slightly swollen but otherwise none the worse for wear. But although Peterson bought my feint and has lunged in the wrong direction, I haven’t bought nearly enough space for that. So instead, I do the only thing I can: I grit my teeth and yank my hand free.
There’s an audible pop and a cataclysmic flare of pain from my finger, and for an instant I’m certain that I’ve torn off the tip of my finger. I grab the outstretched finger in my other hand, which helps the pain somehow. I chance a look at it, and although it’s covered in blood, everything appears to still be attached. More or less, anyway. The nail is hanging half-off, a great flap of skin is dangling loosely and the whole joint appears to be at a new and unpleasant angle, but I’ll take it. I’m free, I still have my finger, and despite everything I’ve managed to make the turn into the alley without breaking my stride.
Large plastic trash cans line one wall of the alley, and I grab for their handles as I run past. Some overturn and some merely roll away from the wall, but either way they’re creating a more complicated path behind me, which is my aim. I don’t know how much it’ll slow Peterson down, but anything is worth a try right now.
You know how some alleys go through to other places? This isn’t one of those alleys. This is the kind that dead-ends into the side of a building, forming an urban box canyon. Thanks to the heavy rain, I don’t see this until I’m well into the alley. There’s no convenient fence to climb, no window to wriggle through. There are some fire escapes several feet above my head, but there’s no real chance that I can jump high enough to catch one, and judging by Peterson’s leap onto the car roof earlier, there’s every reason to believe that he could follow me up.
All that I have on my level are four unmarked metal doors, which are undoubtedly locked. I try the first one just in case, but as expected, it doesn’t budge. I’m out of options, though, so I start hammering on the door with both fists. Every impact causes a new flash of pain from my broken finger, but I need to be heard. Peterson’s thrashing his way through the trash cans, and I’ve only got seconds before he gets to me.
There’s a guttural snarl, and I hit the ground as a trashcan comes flipping end over end at me, trash spewing everywhere. The lid clips me on the way by, but I’m otherwise unscathed. Judging by the abrupt thud, the can makes it all the way to the far wall, but I can’t take the time to track its path. There’s already another trashcan hurtling toward me. Peterson is snatching them up one-handed and hurling them overhand at me as he lurches down the alley.
Suddenly, one of the doors swings open. A heavyset man in a dingy apron peers out into the alley. “Jus’ what is go — oof!”
The “oof” is because I’ve just driven my shoulder into his stomach, folding him over my back as I barge my way through the door. He topples backward into the kitchen, landing heavily on his back, and I spin around, grabbing wildly for the door handle and pulling it shut behind us.
Several other aproned men stare at me in shock. “I need something heavy to shove in front of this door!” I shout. They all just blink at me.
“Now!” I add. Still nothing. I might as well be looking at a display of mannequins. Frustrated, I grab a nearby rack and pull on it. It’s bolted down, and I succeed only in drawing fresh agony from my left shoulder and index finger.
On the floor in front of me, the man I’ve assaulted gets to his feet. He’s understandably angry. Sticking a finger in my face, he demands, “I wan’ you to –”
He’s cut off by a chilling howl from outside, an animal cry of challenge. Immediately after that, the whole door shudders in its frame, there’s a sound of metal pinging on asphalt, and then the doorknob on the inside clatters to the ground.
“What was that?” asks one of the other cooks, who doesn’t have a good view of what just happened.
“He just tore the doorknob off trying to open the door. Something heavy! Now!”
The door shakes in its frame, and then two hairy fingers appear in the hole where the doorknob was. The kitchen fills with a nails-on-chalkboard screeching, the sound of metal under stress, as Peterson hauls with all of his might and the lock begins to bend.
The cook I hit looks at me, white-faced, then runs over to the door. He grabs a pan on his way and swings mightily at the two exposed fingers, slamming the pan down with a metallic crash. There’s an almost catlike shriek from outside, but instead of forcing Peterson to withdraw his fingers, the pain appears to have given him an adrenaline surge. The door suddenly rips open and the poor cook is left face-to-face with the half-ape thing that Peterson is becoming.
From inches away, Peterson bares his teeth and snarls. The cook in front of him is frozen in place; the others are all shouting and fleeing the kitchen. And despite my earlier claim, apparently I would not push a beggar in front of Peterson to effect my escape, because instead of doing the intelligent thing and running, I charge in and shove the cook off to the side. He crashes into a rack full of cooking implements, but before I can see if he’s all right, Peterson swings a huge right fist and catches me in the side of the head.
My head snaps around and I’m sent reeling backwards. Stars explode in my vision and for a moment, everything is either black or bursts of light. I slam painfully into a counter, catching the edge right in my lower ribs on my left side. It drives the wind out of me, and I’m fairly certain I hear something snap.
There’s no time to worry about that right now, though. That was only Peterson’s first punch, and he’s out to kill. Gasping for breath, I grab the nearest kitchen implement I can reach — a pan — and prepare to do battle.
The Experiment 