Credit: Veer Images

Warning - contains some graphic content

Something's wrong with the car. I can't concentrate, can't pin it down. My head hurts like hell. The sunlight burns my eyes, even through my dark glasses. My throat hurts; dry, hot, sharp. A cough razors its way up my neck.

Cool, hard, glass touches my lips. Liquid, cold and bland-sweet, spills into my mouth. I gulp. It's soothing.

"Not too much," she says. Who says?

The driver. "Tanya?"

"Small sips," she says, and I recognize that funny not-quite-from-anywhere accent. "Vomiting would be bad."

It's bugging me. I can't get it out of my head. "What's wrong with the car?"

"Nothing. It's working perfectly."

Oh, yeah. That's the problem. "No sound. Too quiet." I risk a blinked glance. "Too big. What car?"

"Mine," says Tanya. "It's a modified Hummer. Electric. A little diesel plant cuts in to recharge the battery."

There's a light vibration, all the way through my bones. Or maybe that's just me? My head is a balloon full of pain. "Sick," I say.

"You'll be all right," she says. "You're not going to die."

"You're sure?" I'm trying for a laugh, but I'm sick and I'm scared and it's not working.

"I'm sure," she says. "A whole lot of other people are going to die. But not you."

That's not very comforting.

***

I didn't pick her up. Men like me don't pick up women like her. I went to the club every Friday night with a handful of friends from work, because that's what you do. Not because I like loud music, bad lighting and expensive drinks.

I know how to dance. I took lessons. I told everyone it was for fitness. The truth was: I secretly hoped that being groovy on the dance floor would make me a hit with the ladies. It might have worked if I'd had the courage to ask someone I really liked to dance, but that never happened.

I was dancing with Donna from the Recombinant lab when Tanya cut in. Donna didn't mind. She thought I was gay, and she only danced with me so she wouldn't look desperate. I didn't give a damn about Donna's opinion, because she liked Nascar and professional wrestling, and thought real men drove pickup trucks. But when I was dancing with her I didn't look desperate either.

Tanya was insanely hot; petite, pale-skinned with white-blonde hair and dark eyes. She wore a skin-tight bodysuit of black leather, with a big, chunky zipper that started at her throat and disappeared -- somewhere low. I didn't have the courage to look. She smiled in my direction, moving with urgent grace through the bobbing, swaying mess of people. She was so pretty that I glanced back over my shoulder to see who she was looking at. By the time I realised there was no-one there, she was already in front of me, one hand on my shoulder, hips swaying.

She smiled again. Her teeth were perfect.

Donna shrugged, and rolled her eyes. Then she pointed to the bar, and mimed getting a drink. I think I shook my head. I don't really remember, because just about then, Tanya put her lips to my ear and said: "I'm going to rock your world, honey."

Her breath was hot. My skin tightened and tingled. I didn't even think to ask her name.

***