Nothing Is Inflammable by Simon Logan

Author:Simon Logan [Logan, Simon]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Science Fiction, Collections & Anthologies
ISBN: 9780809562886
Google: FXS4FYJJwcMC
Amazon: 1607014106
Publisher: Prime Books
Published: 2006-03-29T22:00:00+00:00

The storms, like the skyscraper, would go on forever,—she knew that now.

Dark clouds choked the sky, unloading themselves in a heavy and constant stream of silvery rain. The air crackled with energy as she ran through the streets, just ran.

She kept her head down, quickening her pace as the sensation of somebody just behind her returned, a feeling of lurking intent, a weight. Her tears were lost amidst the rain.

Lightning flashed and she stopped suddenly as a figure was revealed ahead of her. The shape was described in flickering static, a TV ghost.

“Stop it . . . ”

She pressed at her head, turning and running off to her left and now wet footsteps chasing her, she screamed, legs burning with the exertion, stumbling into a dumpster that she recognized instantly. She looked up and saw the squat at the end of the block.

“Ylena . . . ”

She jumped, turned.

Nothing.

Running again, through the vicious rain falling like scalpel blades.

She pulled the key from the sole of her boots where she had kept it since moving in with Luca and unlocked the padlock on the fence. She jumped at the open window and felt something brush against her ankle as she pulled herself through as if something had tried to grab her. Then inside and the noise of the storm faded.

She lay on the floor for almost a minute, looking back up at the window and expecting to see someone climb through, before getting to her feet. She was soaked through, trailing water behind her as she made her way along the corridor.

The squat felt different this time, protective rather than threatening.

She climbed the stairs slowly, past the doors with the biohazard flowers and into the room beyond. Stopped and turned back.

The stenciled flowers were rough and had been scraped away in places, beneath them names etched into the woodwork.

YD+VN.

She traced the letters with her forefinger and it felt as if she were following a path she had taken many times before. There was familiarity there but nothing more. Her own breathing echoed in her ears.

She traced the letters over and over as if she were stroking a reluctant animal into trusting her, encouraging the marks to reveal themselves. Her hands began to shake, repeating the maneuver more frantically, again, again.

“Ylena.”

A crack of fierce lighting exploded outside, visible through the hall windows and she jumped.

A figure climbed the stairs and this time it didn’t shimmer, didn’t disappear.

“What are you doing here?” she asked it.

“I followed you. I knew you’d come back here.”

“Where else is there for me?”

“You know where,” the figure said.

“These initials . . . ” Ylena stroked them as she spoke. “I remember them.”

“They’re just initials.”

“My initials.”

“This is a squat—do you know how many people have been in here?”

“These are mine,” she insisted as the man climbed another few steps. “I remember knifing it into the door.”

“No you don’t. You think you remember. You want to remember. But the fall . . . ”

“Fuck the fall, Luca,” she snapped at the medic.

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