Turbinio

Corpses and Priorities

''Thirty-five degrees below zero... and it's only going to get worse''

Tears ran down your face in a frozen trail of agony. You didn't know exactly why you were crying or when you started crying, so you just wiped them away. Maybe it was the effect of the orchestra you were listening to and, as much as it didn't make sense, you immediately turned off the gramophone and continued your journey.

The stretch was depressing. Luckily, you weren't isolated. It was still possible to see some familiar runners like Poco Loco and Dot Han, who always stopped to buy some herbs or just drink tea.

Despite feeling a certain admiration and liking most of the runners you had met, only four subjects had an uncomfortable and definitive place in the membranes of your mind. You thought first of Gyro and Johnny. You hadn't seen them since the last camp you made. The last encounter you'd had with Diego was about four days ago, making you feel a little calmer. But then you remembered Hot Pants.

You don't remember the last time you saw Hot Pants. She must have been in Chicago three or four days ago, at the pace she'd taken, breaking out of the race route. You weren't so sure, after all, the constant blizzard made it necessary to be twice as careful about your health and Cadichon's health. Your main focus, throughout the journey, was keeping Cadichon and Agno sufficiently warm, and you didn't mind if it put you three or four hours behind the runners.

Your head throbbed like an inflamed boil. Everything throbbed. Your hands – you'd probably broken something during the trip or the mess in Milwaukee, but you didn't care – your heart was pounding painfully in your chest. And your foot... For God's sake, did you kick a copper statue?

Something on the horizon moved timidly and you couldn't discern exactly what it was. You took a deep breath, closed your eyes, and were ready to draw your weapon. You certainly felt like the survivor of a massive electrical storm; the hairs and nerve endings all standing up straight, connected in agitation.

That's when an unmistakable pink stain gleamed in the cold sunlight and you were startled at what was before you.

''Hot Pants!'' You said, stopping the wagon and stepping down unceremoniously to approach the woman. There was someone else on her horse. ''Holy Mother of God!''

Hot Pants didn't answer, getting weakly off her horse. Whoever the other person on the horse was, you were now sure she was dead, as landed heavily in the snow without moving.

She breathed heavily, fog condensed covering her face.

''It's done,'' She said, looking at you. ''Lucy Steel is safe for now.''

''Damn, are you okay? Who's this here?" You asked, immediately helping Hot Pants to sit on a log, brushing the snow off her.

You knelt beside her, looking for any serious injuries. She had some internal punctures, external cuts and bruises, but nothing really serious. Her eyes narrowed at you. What she thought and felt was there in her eyes, those rosy eyes slanted like a cat's. She let out a sigh, closing her eyes for a moment, then opening them and looking at the body beside her horse, her mouth trembling just a little.

The silence shook you and you shivered, but not from the cold. Hot Pants went to Chicago, rescued Lucy, and walked all the way back to the outskirts of Mackinaw City with a dead body. Certainly, she was looking for you. You got up and cautiously walked over to the lifeless body, seeing pale skin and blond locks unmistakable in the snow. It was Lucy.

''That... But... What?! What is it, Hot Pants?!'' Your voice faltered, shaken. ''Why? You said you made it!''

''Calm down...''