Mathematics Of Eternity by David M. Kelly | Blog Tour

It isn’t luck that the roof to my apartment has a reinforced private landing pad. It means I only have to manage a single set of stairs and I’m home. Better than dealing with temperamental elevators, plus it also insulates me from the street noise when I work shifts. There’s a heavy-duty cage door at the top of the stairwell and another at the elevator, so I’m fairly secure and rarely go out on foot anyway.

Tonight I pretty much slid down the stairs, relying on my one good arm to help me stay upright. The door recognized me, opening automatically as I approached and dragged myself inside, only to collapse on the floor by the bathroom.

“Sir, my sensors detect a dangerously elevated pulse, erratic cardiograms, and high quantities of adrenaline in your biometrics. Respond in thirty seconds, or I shall call for medical assistance.”

“Shove it, you brainless piece of junk.” I swatted the Don’t Worry paddle on top of the insurance-mandated Medibo and crawled one-handed across the floor into the bathroom and onto the edge of the tub.

I rattled through the small drawer by the washbasin and grabbed a hypo-nozzle, jabbing the end against the side of my neck. Almost before the discharge hiss finished, I felt the nerve dampening agents soothing the jangle in my patched together nervous system. It had been months since the last attack and I usually had an hour or so’s warning, letting me detour back to my place to inject. Tonight, the ganglionic shock was biting hard.

Grabbing a bottle in the lounge, I poured myself a large tumbler full of whiskey then twisted and kneaded my arm to fight off the painful pins and needles—the inevitable result of the injection. As I ran my fingers over the back of my shoulder, I felt something sharp buried close to the thin scar that ran around my arm.

I shuffled wearily to the bathroom. It wasn’t easy positioning a mirror to see what it was—an angry crater, dark with clotted blood and fibers from my shirt. I dipped a corner of a hand towel in my glass and dabbed at the wound until it was clean enough to probe with the tip of a thin screwdriver—the only thing I could think to use.

Whatever it was, it was buried deep enough in the muscle to resist, and I slid the screwdriver blade awkwardly down the edge to lever it out. The whole thing was getting increasingly messy when the blade slipped, stabbing deep into my shoulder, and I grunted in pain. I tried again and this time managed to hook the tip underneath the lump and twisted it out.

The hole was pretty deep and next to the boundary between live flesh and my semi-dead arm. It was an unstable part of my anatomy. The impact at that point was probably what had triggered the unexpected attack.

Picking up the gore-coated fragment from where it had fallen, I threw it in the sink and ran warm water over it. I expected to find a piece of sidewalk, but as the blood washed away it revealed a white lump about the size of a fingertip.

A human tooth.

I felt the blood surge in my head, and my temples throbbed. I drained the whiskey, then my legs buckled under me again and I staggered over to the bed alcove. It took absolutely no effort to crumple inelegantly on the mattress.

The injection mixed with the alcohol was really kicking in, and the flesh of my legs and arm felt like they were burning off my bones. Even though I knew it wasn’t the case, I checked them anyway. The only visible difference between my regen’d limbs and the rest of me was a slight color difference on either side of the scars. 

I tried to sit up to take off my shirt but didn’t make it. The last thing I remembered was the thud of my head as it hit the foam pillow. It made the same sound my passenger had made when he hit the concrete.