Cycle of the Unicorn

Every footstep in the snow compresses with a familiar, irregular abrasive sound. The world was coming into focus, and in all directions, nothing but white. I feel a warm, wet sensation on my forehead. It trickles down to my eyelash, and I bow my head. The whiteness of the world is stained red as my blood falls. The drops are covered by more snow as I walk.

I search for the source. The snow falling into my open wound dulls the pain, but once my finger strokes the gash beneath my long, dark hair, a twinge of pain shoots through my entire body, and my knees buckle. I collapse as the world goes dark.

Looking skyward, heavy snowflakes land on my eyelashes. I see dogwood trees. The ground is hard under this soft blanket of powder.

In the stillness, I hear the snow crunch and the sounds of my own retching. A faint sound of wind blows through the barren trees—the thumping of blood through my throbbing head.

The smell is of cold air and my own vomit. I roll away from it and climb to my feet. I know only that I am freezing and injured. Behind me, quickly disappearing blood-soaked footprints, ahead the stark white landscape becomes one with the sky.

I make my way toward the woods, up the hill ahead of me. The further I go, the deeper the snow becomes. Hastening my ascent, I pray the vantage will reveal where I am. I have a misstep, stumble and come down hard in the already packed snow.

My scalp bleeds again. What did I step on? A root? A rock? Another step, and the snow crushes too easily. Bloodstained indentations lie ahead of me. I follow the dimples. They form a path up the hill.

Footprints. Bloody footprints dusted by fresh snow.

I run through the trees, and every step lands a foot in an existing hole. Every impact teases more blood from my scalp, painting my path.

I reach the top of the hill. My breath hangs in white clouds. There are more barren dogwoods ahead, but, beyond them, a highway.

I make my way through the woods to a clearing. I stumble time and again into blood-soaked footprints. I try to alter course, but bloody footprints precede me.

The road is close. A sign stands on the far side. Exit 43? The rest is hard to read. I carefully cross the deserted highway for a closer look.

Stearns-Kauffman Research Facility.

I hear a horn blaring, the tires fighting for purchase on the icy road. Sliding and skidding, the old white Bronco’s headlights blind me as it charges up the off-ramp. I have no time or energy left to react, and in a moment, it is upon me.

***

I grab the keys to the SUV and slam the door behind me. Same old circular arguments with my husband, Dale. I need to break this cycle. I’ll go work on the Unicorn before I explode. A place I have some control, God knows I don’t at home.

My lab is well outside of town, off I-35 - Remote enough to be safe but close enough to commute.

I pull into Stearns-Kauffman. Two other cars in the lot, Jerry’s and Dave and Kelsey’s. My interns from UM. I take off my glove to enter my PIN, difficult because number six is frozen. I make my way to the Utilized Neural Isotope Charged Organism Research Network lab, the Unicorn.

The experiment: using genetically modified electric eel skins, irradiated with heavy isotopes to generate a self-sustaining organic energy source. The Unicorn device was about the size of a VW Bus.

I round the corner to the lab, and Jerry comes bolting at me from the calibration room with a pair of scissors in his hands and a look of terror in his eyes.

“It's bad, Anna, it's really bad.” Jerry drops blood-soaked scissors.

“What’s going on—” I am interrupted by a blaring alarm.

Jerry locks eyes with me, and I read his lips. “I’m sorry, I screwed up.” He runs away, out into the snowy parking lot.

I turn to the nearest control terminal, enter my override, and shut off the sirens.

The screen reads “CRITICAL MASS IN 2:14.” I run to the control room overlooking the Unicorn.

Red lights spin silently, spilling over the consoles, ceiling, and doorway. Heat and a loud hum escape from the room below.

I ask Dave, “What the Hell is going on?”

Kesley pounds commands into her keyboard, Dave answers me. “Jerry was calibrating for Tuesday, and he screwed something up.”

“Screwed up what? How? ”

Kelsey answers before Dave could collect his thoughts, “You both need to leave right now. I might be able to power it down. I don’t know. I’m searching for a place to send the power.”

This is not less stress. I am not in control here, either. “Kelsey, why is the Unicorn running?”

“Jerry said he walked into the calibration room, and someone else was in there.”

“Who? There’s no one else allowed—”

“He said it was himself. Another Jerry.”

“Oh, God, the scissors?”

“Yeah, so much blood. Dave said Jerry killed whoever…whatever was in the calibration room. Then the Unicorn came online. None of us started it, Ann, it started itself. It's been exponentially increasing in output for twenty minutes. I can’t stop it.”

I turn to Dave. “You said Jerry screwed up, so did he. What did he do?”

Dave paces, wringing his hands. “Remember the isotope we agreed to use? Well, Jerry decided the yield would self-sustain if he bombarded the isotope with tachyons.”

Kelsey blurts out, “Not finding any way to shut this down. We need to leave.”

The screen flashes “CRITICAL MASS 1:26.”

Dave asks Kelsey, “What happens when it blows?”

Kelsey stares in horror. I answer for her, “Depends how much power it generates before it goes critical. No idea what effect tachyons will have. A blast radius of, hell, up to a hundred miles with some sort of new, unknown energy. Why tachyons, Jerry?”

We run to the parking lot, Dave and Kelsey leave in Dave’s Civic. I start my Bronco and floor it, sliding wildly in the icy parking lot. I gain grip as the Unicorn’s heat spreads, thawing and drying the pavement.

I panic and enter I-35 the wrong way, via the off-ramp. The snowfall is heavy again. I see the woman it’s too late. I'm leaning on the horn, but she doesn’t react. I strike her as I skid out of control into the guardrail. Bouncing off, the old Bronco bucks and fights me.

I have no control. Did I ever?

The truck ricochets back toward the icy shoulder and plummets over the edge. The Bronco comes down hard on her nose and flips again.

I kick open the door and crawl out. Blood pours from my head. I feel nauseous as I stand.

That’s when it goes—the Unicorn, critical mass. A shock wave washes over me, throws me back...back...back…

***

Every footstep in the snow compresses with a familiar, irregular abrasive sound. The world was just coming into focus, and in all directions, nothing but white.