Summary: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UiSB2Fbw9gs Fang bared her teeth in a flash of anger. “Dad was here? That asshole…” Fang reached over and snatched the revolver from the nightstand. “Where is he now? I’ll shoot the bastard.” Anon and Naser shared a look of mild surprise. Anon smirked and unholstered his finger gun, blowing smoke from its imaginary barrel. Naser shook his head in disbelief. "You're joking, right?" Fang ignored him, weighing the gun in her hand. 'Hey..." she clicked open the cylinder, looking through its empty chambers. She snapped it shut with a flick of her wrist and looked over the side of the bed for her belongings. “Where are the bullets?” “I took the bullets and your switchblade,” said Naser, tucking his thumbs under his belt. “They’re up in my safe.” “Seriously?” bristled Fang, her voice rising a pitch. “Give them back; it’s my stuff!” “No way, not while you’re here in my house.” He cocked his head. “Now that I think about it; I’ll take your gun, too.” Naser held out his hand. Fang hissed at him and clutched the gun to her chest. “The hell you will!” She still looks like Dad when she’s angry, Naser thought. More so now that she's older. “Think about it for a second, Fang. What if Dad comes back? It’s bad enough if he found you here with a wounded leg; it would be worse if he found you in the same room as a murder weapon. The cops probably know the exact calibre and rifling of the gun they’re looking for. Be reasonable.” Seconds passed. Gradually the tension lifted from her shoulders. “Fine, you have a point.” She slapped the revolver into Naser’s hand. “How did you get hold of this, anyway?” Naser inspected the .44 Bulldog. “This is Dad’s old gun.” "I stole it from his gun locker before everything went to shit." "Huh, really?" That would have been around the time he had last seen her at Mom and Dad’s house. The gun looked well-used, with rounded edges and a worn grip. It felt smooth in his hand. "We've been through a lot, that gun and I," remarked Fang with a hint of nostalgia. "I should throw it in a lake, get it out of the house entirely." "No, no, no!" Fang frantically waved her hands at him. "Please, Naser, don't." "Okay! Okay! I'll put it in the safe with the other things for now. Seriously, Fang, it's a risk. There'll be a lot of trouble if the police find it." “I’ll take it with me when I leave, I promise." “That could be a while. You’re not going anywhere unless you know someone who can provide medical care for free, no questions asked. Not to mention the physiotherapy you will need to regain full movement of your leg. I doubt you have the money for that.” “Can I please stay here too, Naser?” begged Anon, butting into the conversation. “I can look after Fang while you're at work.” “No, Anon. If the cops come sniffing around again-” “I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go back to my apartment; they’ll find me!” exclaimed Anon in dismay. “Don’t be a prick, Naser,” snapped Fang, her hands balling into fists. “Let him stay, for fuck's sake.” They both looked at him; Anon with hope, Fang with a promise of violence. Naser turned his eyes to the ceiling and sighed. “Fine, Anon can stay, too.” Fang beamed and relaxed into a nest of pillows she had assembled around herself. “Thanks, Naser,” said Anon, relieved. “What about clothes?” asked Fang. “What we’re wearing is beginning to smell real bad, and man, Anon really needs a shirt.” She reached and squeezed Anon’s hand. “No offense, Anon, but seeing your ribs stick out like that, it's gross.” “Wear my clothes; they’ll fit you,” suggested Naser. He had tons of clothes, more than he’d ever need. “They’ll fit me,” she retorted, “but not Anon. Not unless you want to see him walking around with his hairy ass crack showing through the tail hole.” Naser cringed. “You could stop by my apartment on Scale Boulevard if the cops aren’t there waiting for me,” said Anon, folding his arms across his chest in a conscious attempt to conceal his rib cage. “Pick up my clothes.” “The area they used to call Skin Row? Nuh-uh, not if I can help it. I’ll stop by the shops. We'll have to clean the blood out of the car, first.” Naser looked at his watch. “It’s still early; plenty of time.” “Yeah, right. I bet you five Kanye’s that you won’t find a single article of human clothing at any of the shops in Volcadera,” wagered Anon with a sly little grin. Naser snorted. “I doubt you have a single dollar to your name. It won’t be a problem, you’ll see.” *** "Clothes for humans?" said the spinosaurus cashier with a combination of confusion and disgust. "No, I'm afraid we don't carry that sort of thing here. There’s Budget Threads on the other side of the shopping centre; they might have what you're looking for." “I’ve been there already,” whined Naser in frustration, “they don't have any!” “I’m sorry, sir; we can’t help you.” She turned away and made herself look busy. Naser flung his arms in the air and turned from the counter, stalking out of the men's clothing store. A gnawing anxiety rooted itself in Naser's chest. He navigated the mall's labyrinthine corridors, the PA system's monotonous music only adding to his mood. He felt as if he was an unwelcome guest in a semi-abandoned museum of pre-meteor history. There were other shoppers around, but very few. They went about their business, avoiding eye contact. Occasionally he would pass one of the few stores that weren’t dark and empty, bored workers loitering inside, kept employed by some government subsidy Naser had heard about on the news and half-remembered. A 'return to normal incentive,' the newscaster had called it. It's futile trying to recapture the past, Naser thought. There's no returning to the old normal for a society composed almost entirely of shell-shocked, PTSD-afflicted victims of an apocalypse... drifting through their lives in a world of ghosts. It reminded him of Fang and how she reached out to Anon, a guy she dated for a few months over a decade ago, clinging to him like a flotsam of happiness in an ocean of misery. She grabbed at a concept, an idea of Anon based on a distant, hazy recollection. The reality, the actual Anon, might be something else entirely, and there was no taking back. Naser passed a strip of PSA signs as he approached the exit. They presented the usual dire warnings; the danger of squatters residing in unregistered domiciles, the societal detriment of hoarding, the adverse inter-generational effects of interbreeding and so forth. He hadn’t noticed before, but most of the PSAs featured humans as the subject of ridicule. Except for the interbreeding one, humans in that would have been too far-fetched, even by PSA standards. Naser tried to imagine how upset Anon would be if he had seen these. He’d likely say nonsense about dino celebrities wearing outfits carved from human baby leather or some such. To his surprise, it occurred to Naser that he actually liked Anon. He despised that Fang’s emotional well-being depended on a wishy-washy freeloader and an unknown quantity, but Anon was congenial enough, funny too, in an inappropriate sort of way. Being with Anon and Fang, it was like he had friends again. Naser walked through automatic doors and into an outdoor parking lot surrounded by chain-link fences topped with razor wire. What if Anon was right about the forced extinction of humans- or at least partially correct? Dad mentioned how the Nats had picked up a stray for disposal. It was such a strange way of describing someone being arrested. What was the National Guard doing picking people off the street, anyway? They weren’t the police, and the riots were long ago. And there was that intrusive thought he had when Dad accused him of lying; the image of Anon being beaten to death. Did that come from his emotions or his intuition? As Naser settled into the driver's seat of his car, he was immediately met with the unmistakable metallic odor of blood. Despite Naser’s and Anon’s efforts to clean the interior, including wiping down the leather seats and covering the carpeted floor with blankets, the blood had permeated into the seat cushioning, and the smell lingered. The unseasonably hot sun beating down on the car had only intensified the smell. Naser felt as though he was sitting in a blood-soaked oven. He opened the windows to let in the fresh air. Anon was right; none of the shops he went to stocked human clothing, at least none on this side of Volcadera. He’d have to go to Anon's apartment in Scale Boulevard after all, despite his reservations. Before he left the house, Fang had asked Naser to retrieve her belongings and gave him the key to her apartment. He’d stop by her place and go to Anon's apartment afterward; they were pretty much right next to each other, anyway. A quick in-and-out mission. No problem, he told himself and pressed the ignition button. The motor hummed to life. *** Naser pulled into the small, weed-speckled parking area of a weathered, pre-meteor motel, its sun-bleached exterior cracked and peeling. An abandoned derelict, bordering on ruin by appearances. He double-checked his GPS to confirm he was at the correct location. Unfortunately, his car's navigation software confirmed that he had arrived at the right spot. He sighed and got out of his car. Two tiny, naked troodon kids stared at him from the far side of the lot. They looked wild and unkempt. Brother and sister, Naser guessed. He squinted at them. The eldest one, a girl, picked at her nose. Raptor Jesus, where are the parents? Naser wondered, locking his car. What the hell is this place even supposed to be? Is it a motel or rental units or what? There didn't appear to be anyone else around, besides the feral children. A creaky sign above the building swayed lazily in the breeze, too deteriorated by rust to be readable. It was hard to believe anyone could actually live here. He checked the tag attached to the key Fang had given him and approached the dust-coated motel door that bore a matching number, unlocking it. A wave of warm, stale air greeted him as he broke the seal. Naser stepped into the unit, leaving the front door open. The interior wasn’t as bad as the outside had suggested; it looked like a typical, pre-meteor budget motel room with the usual trappings and a small kitchenette. Fang had not kept the unit tidy. A large backpack on an unmade bed, contents spilling out. Meal-bar wrappers, discarded soda bottles and tossed articles of threadbare clothing lay dispersed around the floor and draped on furniture. In one corner leaned a battered acoustic guitar. The bathroom, on the other hand, was in shambles. There hung in the air an unpleasant aroma Naser could not identify. The mirror was fractured, cracks radiating from a central point of impact. Bottles of medicine, gun oil and makeup littered the vanity, the basin drain clogged with feathers. The scattered resin-caked remains of a glass bong lay on the ground next to the toilet, evidently smashed against the tiled bathroom wall. “Hey! Who’s in there?” shouted a scratchy voice, startling Naser. He peered out of the bathroom. On the doorstep perched a barefooted troodon woman in a stained floral dress, around four-foot tall. “Who're you?” she asked with suspicion. Naser could see the two kids behind her in the parking area outside, watching. Must be her kids, he decided. Naser sauntered over to speak with her. “I’m Naser, the brother of Lucy, the lady who lives here? I’ve come by to collect her things.” The little troodon gazed at him, perplexed. “Lucy? Who’s Lucy?” Naser suddenly remembered what Fang had said earlier that afternoon. “Sorry, I meant to say Jessica Martinez. Excuse me, may I ask who you are?” She pursed her lips and scrutinized him. “I’m the landlord. You don’t resemble her, how do I know you’re not a burglar?” “Do I look like a burglar to you? I got the key right here and that’s my car parked outside.” “Is that so?” she peered at his Ptergeot. He could see her expression change from suspicion to something more calculating. “Well, your sister's rent is a month overdue, and there’s the damage to consider. Altogether the cost comes to…” she tapped her chin, rocking on the heels of her feet. “Five-thousand Kanye's.” “Outrageous,” he scoffed in indignation. “That’s way too much. She doesn't have that sort of money.” “Then you’re going to have to pay on her behalf, aren’t you,’ the troodon remarked, turning her head to stare at him through one eye in a bird-like fashion. Naser laughed incredulously. “There’s no way I’m paying a swindler like you that sort of money.” “If you don’t pay up, I’ll call the cops,” she glowered, her foot talons tap-tapping on the doorstep. He reached for his wallet without hesitation. “Do you take checks?” *** The sun had become elusive as dusk approached, flashing briefly through gaps that separated buildings. Between being interrogated by Dad, dealing with rude cashiers and getting blackmailed, Naser couldn’t imagine the day getting any worse. At least he had Fang’s things in the backseat of his car. A backpack stuffed with cheap clothes and a banged-up guitar, all for the low, low price of five-thousand dollars. He couldn’t recall the last time he heard her play. He remembered her being good, great even. This will be her second chance, he hoped. Make a name for herself, be noticed and become the person she had always yearned to be as a teenager. This time next year, when she’s healed and walking, and all of this has blown over, she can reunite with Dad and bury the hatchet. And Mom! It would blow Mom’s goddamn mind to see Fang again. Naser’s car turned onto a long, narrow road flanked by young, stunted trees. Tall, grey apartment blocks loomed on either side, casting the boulevard into shadow. The sound of crunching debris under the Ptergeot's tires echoed through the deserted urban canyon. Perhaps it's not as bad as it used to be, he rationalized in an attempt to repress a feeling of unease. It had a dark reputation back when it was called Skin Row, but they changed the name; that must count for something, right? And Fang mentioned she had walked through here when coming home from work one fateful day a week ago; it couldn’t have been that dangerous if it was part of her daily commute. On second thought, Fang did carry a gun and a knife… The Ptergeot parked itself behind a burnt-out wreck, a couple of buildings down from the destination address. He disengaged the motor and groped under the driver's seat for the nightstick he stashed under there, a gift from Dad. Reassured by the weight of the baton in his hand, he stepped out of the car, locking it behind him. If thugs burst out of nowhere, he’d clonk them right on the head. He gave it a few experimental swings, getting accustomed to it. Satisfied, he looped it through his belt and headed up the sidewalk towards Anon’s apartment block, a boxy piss-colored structure with the words ‘The Heights’ stenciled above its door-less entrance. An odor of stale urine pervaded the lobby of ‘The Heights.’ It was stark, with a dull unpainted all-concrete interior, exposed pipes running along its walls and garbage strewn across its floor. Overly bright fluorescent lights flickered from the ceiling. Stepping around rubbish, Naser trudged up a flight of stairs, his footfalls reverberating with each step. He got off the stairs on the second floor and walked briskly down a narrow corridor, following numbers plastered to the wall. He slowed to a stop as he reached Anon’s apartment. Its door hung open, partially torn from its hinges. “What the fuck?” His tailored leather shoes sank into the sodden shag carpet as he entered the apartment. He gagged, covering his nose with a handkerchief as an overwhelming stench of mildew and rot reached his nostrils. The bathroom toilet was smashed to pieces, the source of the fetid water that saturated the carpet. Everything Anon owned was in ruins, his clothes torn from the closet and dumped on the wet floor to decompose. Spray-painted on a wall framed by black mold were the words ‘all scabs must die.’ The overpowering odor was too much for him; he turned and fled the room. Naser stumbled into the corridor and towards the stairwell, inhaling air marginally less awful than the water-logged apartment. He gripped the handrail and tottered down the stairs, overwhelmed by nausea. What trouble had Anon gotten himself into? Fuck, he just wanted out of this reeking shit hole. Kicking through trash in the lobby, he emerged onto the street. Hunched over, he gulped for air, hands planted on knees, relieved to be out of there. The sound of something scraping on concrete not far up the street... He looked over. On the sidewalk, a teen aged human wearing a hoodie approached Naser's car, a cinder block raised above their head. Naser forgot his nausea. “Hey! Stop!” He shouted, lurching into a run, fumbling at the nightstick at his hip. The skinnie flung the cinder block through the passenger-side window of Naser’s car with a resounding crunch, fragments of glass falling onto the asphalt. The car alarm blared. “God damn it! My new-” A blunt object smashed into the back of Naser's skull. His vision flashed with white light, and he staggered, trying to maintain footing, his head reeling from the impact. A sack was dragged over his head, shrouding him in darkness. Rough hands grabbed his wings and yanked, jerking him off his feet. Naser screamed with pain; he dropped the nightstick, floundering around for purchase as wing bones dislocated from their shoulder sockets. Naser's world spun, and with a jarring crunch, his face impacted a brick wall. A hand reached into his trouser pocket as he struggled, taking his keys. He could see the car lights flash through the cowl, and the car alarm fell silent. “Tut tut, you greedy lizard, coming here all by yourself in your flashy sports car,” a deep voice breathed into his ear. "Do you have any conception of how fucked you are, little wing?” Naser felt the point of a knife press against his waist. “We’re going to kill you...”