Heroic Measures (continued)

Walter tried to rise. His muscles obeyed him, but it seemed as if they took a long time to do so. It might simply be his perceptions, he realized dully. He felt disconnected from his body, as if it belonged to someone else, but still listened to his instructions. He did not hurt much, not yet, but fully expected to by morning.

If there is one . . .

He managed to turn his head, but it seemed to take tremendous effort. His skull felt swollen to gigantic proportions and carved from granite. The world turned very slowly as it moved.

Red lay sprawled out on his back. His limbs appeared to be intact. At least, Walter observed, they appeared to pointing at all of the correct angles. The frame of his visor, still fastened across his eyes, was fractured. Several slivers from the protective crystal band appeared to be missing from it.

In the dim light of the alleyway, Walter could not tell whether the slick reflections that he saw across Red’s body were from blood, or simply the sheen of Red’s outfit. He remained perfectly still and Walter could not tell whether or not he was still breathing. Walter wanted to go to his friend, to know, but his body refused to move.

Less than three feet away from Red, Vivian lay sprawled on her side, one of her arms draped out above her head. One of her wings was twisted, half-torn from its harness. She had never looked more delicate and vulnerable.

Walter saw that she appeared to be alive. She breathed in quick, short gasps, but seemed to be unconscious. He guessed this because she did not moan, nor did she make any sign that she recognized either his or Red’s presence near her.

He felt suddenly weak, but his body remained upright, as if some outside force held it there. The sensation grew no worse, but all he wanted to do was to rest, to close his eyes and . . .

“Dad?”

Silence reigned suddenly in Walter’s universe. He thought that he should be surprised, and then began to wonder if he was truly conscious. His eyes told him that he was still in the alleyway, but none of his other senses provided any opinions either way.

A concussion, maybe?

It was not difficult to accept that theory. The last thing he remembered was being tossed away—hard. He had collided with . . . something.

Probably the dumpster . . .

“Dad?”

The voice seemed to come from inside his mind. It seemed distant at first, but with a clarity that his ears could never produce.

Jerry?

Walter did not know whether his lips moved or not as he spoke.

There came a faint chuckle. It was light and full of good-natured mirth.

“No, Dad,” the voice within his mind said. “It’s me . . . Ben—Benny.”

A chill like an icicle sliding through his spinal column shot through his body.

I’m dead.

“Is Abby—your mother with you?”

“No,” the voice said, after a brief pause. “She’s not with me.”

Walter felt his heart sink. It was the first real sensation he had experienced since this . . . hallucination? had begun. He wanted tears, but if they came, he could not feel them on his cheeks.

She should be, he protested loudly within his thoughts. If ever there was an angel . . .

“I’m not in heaven, Dad,” the voice explained calmly. “And you’re not dead . . . at least not yet.”

Walter found the statement both reassuring and worrisome.

Not yet? So I might still die . . . ? Then he felt a smile grow inside him. Abby might be in heaven, then, after all.

“Dad,” Benny’s voice returned, carrying a gentle, but firm tone clearly intended to get his attention.

Walter waited and said nothing.

“I can help you,” Benny’s voice said. “But I need you to trust me.”

Help me? How? From injuries?

”More than that, Dad,” Benny said. “But you must trust me.”

His ethereal voice carried both a note of insistence and of pleading.