GENRE: Science Fiction
Kalp was dead on the living room floor.
Basil was torn between jerking backwards - revolted by the sudden coolness of the limp fingers still wrapped around his hand, from the already waxy feel of the skin under the bristles on Kalp’s cheek - and surging forward to try to shake Kalp back into breathing. The purple-red blood was still pumping out of a fist-sized wound, growing ever more sluggish as the seconds ticked by. Basil jammed his hand over the blooming injury, pushed in his fist in an effort to stop the flow. Limp blue fur tickled his knuckles, dark cooling skin made goose pimples burst upwards along his arms.
Basil called to Kalp long after it was obvious that Kalp could ever respond.
Basil looked up. Standing in the fore of the small phalanx of Special Ops soldiers from the Institute, Agent Aitken had gone ashen. Her gun was pointed at the ceiling, her finger still on the trigger, knuckles white. Basil imagined he could see smoke curling out of the barrel.
"What did you do that for?" Basil shouted.
Aitken swallowed and her composure cracked. "The hostile was-"
"My husband was-"
"You don't understand. He had to be-"
"Shut up, shut up!" Basil shrieked, forgetting about staunching the blood flow (it was so cold against the backs of his fingers, the beds of his nails, god, cold already, too late). He lunged up to wrap clawed fingers, purple as Kalp's blood dried, around Aitken’s neck.