Volume 1: Sucked Dry

Issue Three: Into the Sun

After the landing lesson, Fence and I race through the streets of the city in a Thunderbird he got from god knows where. Every day, he picks me up in a different car, and most nights, he takes me home in a different one as well. We'll be at the end of a lesson, or the Sun will start peaking over the tops of the buildings, and he'll say, “Wait here. I'll be back,” and in moments the city streets are filled with the roar of an engine, the squeal of tires, and there's Fence, careening through a tight corner to pick me up in the automobile du-jour.

“Nice one tonight,” he says as he pulls up in the black convertible, top down. I hop over the door and into the passenger seat.

“Red leather?” I ask proddingly. He just smiles.

“You know, you're the kind of guy my mother told me to look out for.” It's not the first time I've alerted him to that fact.

“S'okay. I'm the kind of guy every mother tells her children to look out for.” It wasn't the first time he'd said that.

Now, with gravity back in control, the wind through my hair is more of a nuisance than a novelty. I try to grab all the loose strands I can and hold them together, but at least a few invariably get away, and I finally give up the whole mess, letting it whip wildly as we go faster, faster down the highway.

“Slow down Fence. Got somewhere to be?”

“It's almost seven.”

“What?” I look down at my watch. Six forty-five. “Motherfucker! I had no clue...”

He points toward the foothills looming in front of us, black silhouettes against the night sky. “Sun's going to be creeping over any minute now. You just haven't seen it. It won't matter if we're a couple of minutes late.”

“Dammit Fence!” I scream, trying to amplify my voice against the roar of the engine and the enraged wind. “You know I owe everything I have—my entire life—to Walter Ponchus. If he gets caught doing this—we're fucked. All of it's fucked. Can't you understand that?”

“I understand, I just don't think you're being realistic. So what if you get in a little late? So what if Ponchus gets caught? He's gotten out of worse jams—you know that from experience. That man can lie his way out of any difficult situation, and he'd have no problem with this.”

“That doesn't mean we should act like what he's doing for us isn't a big deal!”

“Dana, listen. All this training, you have to remember it was sanctioned—don't even start, you know I won't tell you by whom—but what that means is that, for the most part, you and I have carte blanche. I could take you and leave the country and the first guard who decided to tell someone about it would end up either crazy or dead or both, and nobody else would say a word.”

“And I have a problem with that. Just because you and I can do this, just because we have some kind of power, doesn't mean that innocent people need to get hurt to preserve it. Isn't that what you were telling me just a few minutes ago?”

“So,” he chuckles, “is that the lesson you learned from the accident that landed you in the slammer?”

“Fuck you.”

He slows down as we near a hairpin turn; now the Sun is beginning to peek over the tops of the hills, casting an iridescent glow on the dew of the morning world.

“I think you missed the point. I didn't want you to hurt people because I didn't want you causing a scene, not because I believe you have some moral obligation to not to harm to others. I couldn't give two shits about who would have been crushed under the two tons of granite you liberated from the side of that building. What I do care about is having to answer questions.”

“Taking responsibility?”

“Exactly. Dana, we can't risk it. There are already too many people out there who know about the creatures of the All-line. The Hunters—they even want to kill us. You saw that first hand.”

“Yeah, and I also saw what you did to him,” she said, thinking of the night Fence pulled her from the bushes, his jacket and hands slick with blood, an unidentifiable lump no more than five feet from him, thick, red blood spreading like a universe into the grass it sat on.

“He was young. And alone. We aren't invincible Dana. We may be immortal, but we aren't invincible. We can be crippled.”

“I know, I know,” I say flippantly, knowing it. “ 'There are some things worse than death.' “

He looks over from the driver's seat with disgust. “You don't know shit. If you knew what a life worse than death felt like, we wouldn't even be having this conversation. But some day—and I promise you this—you will find out.”

“Sounds like a threat.”

“It isn't, it's a...”

“A promise, yeah yeah, I know. Look, can we just be quiet the rest of the way? I guess part of me is still too human to understand how you could look at people as so expendable, as such...such a liability.”

He nods, cranes his neck to pop it, and concentrates on the road. I lay my head back, and for the first time in a long time, wish I could have a drink. I close my eyes and put my fingers to the left side of my neck, feeling for the two indentions. Perfectly healed, just slightly concave. You couldn't see them at all. You would only notice them if you felt my neck. My reminder. My kiss from Fence.

That first night, when he asked if I wanted to live forever, I told him, “Hell no.” I told him I wasn't even sure if I wanted to live through tomorrow. And his face, his mouth, drew down into a deep frown, an expression of sadness that looked so feigned it was laughable. He couldn't care less about whether I lived or died. And I found it kind of funny. Almost a turn on.

No, Fence was more disappointed that I hadn't said yes because me saying no made me a harder sell. And Fence was not at all interested in playing the salesman this time around, even though vampires are good salesmen. The fucking best. Some of the richest people in the world—vampires. Their cunning, their skill, their love for power—that's what makes these people such good salesmen. Some of them are better than others, of course. Most vampire men work for car dealerships. The really good ones work for used car dealerships. The women—retail. The vampire's curse—the one you inherit once bitten? It's not that you're allergic to sunlight. It isn't that wooden stakes or crosses can end your life. It isn't a lust for love. The vampire's curse is buyer's remorse. Anytime anyone's ever sold you something you didn't want, anytime you've ever regretted buying something from the Home Shopping Network the day after seeing a midnight infomercial—that was probably a vampire selling you that. You've always heard the saying, “It takes a special kind of person to be a” and enter any occupation there. Well, it takes a special kind of person to be a truly gifted salesman. And that kind of person is a vampire.

So when Fence saw that I wasn't just going to come along peacefully, he knew he had work to do. Normally the kind of thing that turns a vampire on, unless that work gets in the way of a much much bigger job. Not really a question I've answered yet.

That first night, Fence asked if I had a place for him to wash off. And when he picked me up with one arm out of that bush and smiled that smile of his, I couldn't wait for him to get back to my place for a wash.

He tells me later, because I don't remember (the last of the vodka had kicked in), that the second I stood up, I collapsed to the ground again and tore a hole in my jeans. My knee bled pretty bad, he said. He said it was all he could do, waiting until getting me back home.

The next morning, I woke up with little knowledge of the night before and a headache that seemed to get less painful by the moment. Hell, I didn't even notice the stains until later that night, when I went to sit on the couch for coffee.

But there on the couch was a large, circular bloodstain. Right where my neck was laying when I woke up, not remembering how I got home or even who I was with the night before. I checked the apartment, but it was...

“Empty,” Fence says, jolting me out of my reminiscence. We've arrived at the warehouse, but Ponchus didn't greet us. And now, Fence is worried. Which is bad. Because Fence never gets worried.

Fence has just come out of the warehouse. He insisted I stay in the car, even though anyone seeing either one of us would spell disaster. “There's no one in there,” he says as he jumps from the ramp to the ground with a 'thud.'

“What? Where's Walter?”

Fence just looks off into the east, watching the rising Sun grow larger by the second.

“If he's not here, something's wrong.”

I open the door to the car, close it gently, and get out to go stand next to Fence. “Hell, I know the way. Can you get me in the door?”

Fence takes off his sunglasses and looks me in the eye. “Honey, if Walter isn't here, it's not because he caught the flu, or had to call in sick because he put his dog to sleep. If Walter ain't here, it's because some shit has gone down.”

And then he says something I'll never forget.

“You think too much. I assume you always have. Stop that shit. It's not worth anything where we're going.”

Then he grabs my hand and leads me up the ramp.

Our footsteps echo in the great, shadowy expanse of the warehouse as he leads me quickly across the concrete floor toward the wall at the other end. We walk for at least thirty seconds before we reach an inconspicuous sheet of the corrugated steel that makes up the wall of this place. Fence takes a few steps back and regards it with what looks like feigned curiosity.

“Fence, what the...”

But before I can finish the thought, I'm in his arms, then in the air, and as I hurtle toward the steel wall, my eyes closed, I wonder what I've gotten myself into, but before my head can hit anything harder than the space around it, I crash onto a slick metal floor.

I keep my eyes closed until I hear Fence say, “Get up honey. Smells like Death in here. And that's never a good thing.”

***

Jake McAllister sat at the desk in his fifth-floor loft with his head in his hands. The place was dark, save the lamp on his desk. The vast concrete home was sparsely furnished—a table that would fit four, an old leather couch Jake found on the side of the road one day on the way home from work, a TV with a split down the screen. Jake's bookshelves and his stereo were the only things he was really concerned with. That and his work.

Sitting on the desk were all manner of records—crumpled papers, napkins with wild, drunken chickenscratch on them, cardboard coasters from bars with a couple of names, maybe a phone number.

“It doesn't make sense Cassie.”

Jake's golden retriever looked at him curiously from her large, plush floor bed.

“Recruitment—it's through the roof. New ones every day. And they're actively recruiting—it's the first time since 1865 that they've done that.”

Cassie laid her head down on the floor, as if in thought.

“Fence Ranier—more active than ever. Hunters have sighted him all over the place, but they won't touch him after the...incident.”

Flashes of the police photographs shot through Jake's mind. A young hunter, didn't know what he was getting into, went up against Fence Ranier. The hunter—there were probably still parts of him fertilizing the park soil.

“So is this the way it begins? The final war? Can't be—not enough fireworks. But somethings going on...”

The dog lifted up its head, panted for a second, and then jumped up to lick its master in the face.

“Christ Cassie,” sighed Jake McAllister as he communed with his friend. “Why the hell did Dad leave me this inheritance?”

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Outside, Inside
By Branden Hart

Volume 1: Sucked Dry

Issue 2: Out Cold

The city rises up before me, miles of skyscraper, some lights blinking off, some on, turning the expanse into a mass of rigid stone organisms, all winking at each other. I stand on the edge of a dock, the lake at the edge of the city stretched out behind me. Its surface is a funhouse mirror, distorting the reflection of the city, a dark, deformed twin of the straight lines and polished surfaces that stretch into the sky.

“Ready?” asks Fence.

I nod.

“Take off your coat,” he says. “You'll get less resistance that way.”

“Why don't you take your coat off!” I demand, pointing at the cloak draping his hulkish frame.

He just stares at me.

“But it's freezing!” I say, already slipping my arms out of the soft warm leather.

“Then I hope you like the cold. You'll get used to it. Gotta keep in mind—it can't hurt you anymore.”

No matter how many times he tells me what can and can't hurt me, its always a relief to hear the reminder.

“Where do I land?”

Fence trains his dark eyes and scans the skyline. “The Culebra Building. Top floor.”

“I don't know if I can make it.”

Fence turns and takes my shoulders, his hands holding on too tight, bunching up the thin white cotton of my undershirt before he releases his grip enough so I'm comfortable again. “Dana, remember that what you can do is only limited by what you really want to do. By what you'd love to do. What would you love to do right now?”

“I want to feel the wind whipping through my hair as I watch the ground fall below me. I don't want to be held down by the Earth.”

Fence shrugs. “So do it.”

I stare up into the space above me, measuring the distance between me and the top of the tallest building in the city. I take a long, slow breath. The smell of a coming storm comforts me and spurs me on to complete tonight's lesson before it starts to rain down on us.

I bend my legs, close my eyes, and jump.

For several seconds, I keep my eyes closed against the instant rush of air, colder than I imagined on the ground. My hair is pulled back by my trajectory, and in a moment, I realize I have no bearing on where I am. Carefully, I open my eyes, and the cold bursts against my eyeballs. After the inevitable tears begin streaming down my face, I can open them for longer, and I look down. Below me, the ground is dropping at a fantastic rate, as if I'm stationary and it's the Earth that's moving, distancing itself from me. I can see the streets crisscrossing, creating a living grid, cars and people moving like ants.

Then I look in front of me just in time to see the large stone gargoyle flying toward me. With a shriek, I shift clumsily in the air, brace myself, and then concentrate on exactly what I want to do next. I channel all my energy into my feet, the way Fence taught me to land, and let the stone absorb the impact. A hellish noise fills the air as the gargoyle shatters.

“Oh shit,” I think as I begin the plunge down to the street, shards of stones—horns, teeth, a bulbous nose—accompanying my descent. Now the air is on my back, screaming in my ears. It feels like the fall takes forever, my skin becoming colder by the second, and the only thought running through my head is, “It can't kill you anymore. It can't kill you anymore. It can't kill you anymore.”

At once, the fall stops. There is no impact, no noise. And I think, “Maybe it did kill me.”

“Dana, you awake?”

It's Fence. I feel his thick, warm arms holding me. I open my eyes. His squints back at me, and he's smiling, his teeth bright white except for lines of red trailing down his chin. He's excited.

“Where are we?” I say. “What with all the wind?”

“Look down.”

Below us, Earth is leaving so fast I can't track where everything is going. The wind was the cold air rushing against my face. It shocks me back into reality and I start to register the feeling in my gut that tells me we are moving at a speed not meant for human consumption.

“Hold on a little tighter,” says Fence. “I'm about to stop.”

Almost before I can grab onto his collar, I feel us begin to slow rapidly and then I barely feel a thing. The wind whips around us, but we aren't moving anymore. Fence's arms are so warm, and the view is so beautiful.

Every star in the sky shows, as if the smog of the city had been sucked out of the sky to reveal the blanket of lights. I see every constellation I'd learned in school—Orion, the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia.

“Fence, how the hell...”

He's looking up as well, smiling as big as I've ever seen him.

“Um, Fence, how high up are we?”

“High enough,” he says after a chuckle. “Now, you really need to hold on. I obviously still need to teach you some about landing.”

He gives me more time to grab onto him this time. Which is a good thing. Because by the time we land, I think I'm going to get frostbite, my hands hurt so fucking bad.

But I'm not thinking about that much. I'm enjoying the ride. After all, frostbite can't hurt me anymore.

You have to hear me.

It's Fence's voice inside my head. I do.

You have to concentrate on your goal or you'll never be able to do anything you want.

The wind rushes faster; the sky pulls at my hair.

I was...

No, you were thinking about how amazing it is. You have to concentrate on exactly what you want, and that happens in the future. You were thinking about now.

But I...

And the wind stops, and I look down, and there are small red pebbles, and then Fence's size fifteen motorcycle boots. I look up at him as he kneels down and puts me tenderly on the ground, allowing me to get up on my own.

I almost faint when I do.

The darkness stretches out in a plane before me, unbroken by any other surface I can see. We're on top of the Culebra Building.

Fence is standing there smiling at me when I turn around. “Come out to the ledge with me,” he says, turning and waving for me to follow him. My feet crunch on the pebbles. We're so high up, I can't hear a sound from the city. I try to remember the last time I hadn't heard the honking of horns, the sounds of machines. But this silence—it isn't peaceful. It's haunting. Enough to make my stomach lurch.

By the time I come up behind Fence, I can see the tops of buildings far below, peeking over the knee-high ledge he's standing in front of, and he's staring out into the seemingly endless void.

“You should come all the way over here. Take a look at it—it's amazing.”

“Hah—no thanks. I don't care what can hurt me or what can't or whether I can live forever or what's going on—you are not getting me to look over that ledge. It must be at least a quarter of a mile down!”

Fence just continues to look into the night. He sighs briefly, then, without turning, says, “If you don't come over here, I'll throw you over the edge.”

His dark outline didn't budge after saying that, so I started walking. Fence wasn't joking. If he had been, he would have laughed.

“Good,” he says, hearing the crunch of the gravel as I stepped carefully toward the ledge, all the time, radio towers from the inferior buildings far below us creeping slowly into view, blinking their red and white lights at me. Fence sticks his hand out to me and curls his fingers several times, encouraging me to take it. Reluctantly, I grab hold and step further up to the edge.

“Look down.”

I gulp and stick my head out. A vast expanse of space greets me, a nothingness that seems to go on forever until I can see tiny, tiny lights blinking out of the long tunnel made from the side of the building and the night all around it.

“You can stop looking.”

I step back, see the pebbles again, and reel backwards, shocked by the proximity of the surface I'm standing on. He chuckles heartily, shaking like the bear he is, and catches me before I hit the ground.

“So what did you see?”

“A whole lot of nothing for a shitload of time. Jesus man, why the hell was that necessary?”

He plops down on his ass next to me and sighs. “Well, what you didn't see was this building falling, or chunks of it careening into the streets below, which is what would have been happening had I used the same carelessness you had when you crushed that poor gargoyle.”

“Oh no!” I scream. “I hadn't thought—what happened...”

He shook his head, shushing me. “It's fine, it's fine. I took care of it. Didn't hurt a living soul. Gonna be pretty hard for the street crews to move tomorrow morning.”

“Jesus,” I mumble, my head in my hands.

“That's the thing Dana—me saying you don't have to worry about being hurt doesn't mean you shouldn't worry about hurting other people. Hell, you could have killed a lot of people. But instead of thinking about that, you were thinking about how great you felt. With us, all of Outside, we've got both the good and the bad. The folks who don't care about anyone but themselves, the folks that care too much about others, and everything in between. No different from where you came from. Maybe even a little more like the way those guys live than you've caught on to yet.”

“That's fine and well, but how can you just introduce me to these kinds of things and not expect me to revel in the joy of them? I mean, how many people get to do what I'm doing now?”

“None, Dana. No human has ever done what you're doing. No human ever will.”

I sigh—the old “quit talking about them like you're still one of them” speech. “Semantics aside, you know what I mean.”

“Fine. Tell you what. You want to go somewhere tomorrow night where I can let you do stuff—no consequences whatsoever?”

Fence always knows when he's up against a will he can't break. “It's a deal.”

Walter Ponchus was regarding a wall on the far side of the warehouse with curiosity. It stunk. Like death. This one particular spot. Had it been any other smell, he would have jumped in like a maniac when he was standing in the cafeteria across the prison grounds and first caught the whiff. But the smell of death never meant anything good, and there was no use rushing when you were the only one who could handle things. He looked at his watch—3 AM. Fence wouldn't be along for hours. That was too much time to leave whatever had gotten in there alone.

Walter breathed in deep and rolled up the sleeves on his white Oxford. With that, he walked toward the shiny wall of corrugated steel, considered it for two more seconds, and then walked right through it.

Posted by Branden Hart at 12:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1) | Del.icio.us It | Fark It | Digg It

I hope you like the new story. Let me know what you think folks.

Outside, Inside
By Branden Hart

Volume 1: Sucked Dry

Issue 1: That First Sweet Taste

The thing about Fence that people notice the most? He laughs a lot. And at inappropriate things. He came as my date to a dinner party at Cassie's one time, and when the steak was served, he scoffed. “You call this medium rare?” he chided the host, picking up the slab of meat with his fork and waving it through the air, spots of dripping, dark red blood splattering the white silk tablecloth.

You don't question the skills of Cassie Gambrian's personal cook.

But Fence does a lot of things that people aren't supposed to do. Like right now. The moon shines through the one window in this fifth story apartment, reflecting off his pale white forehead. I can see his pure, white teeth glowing. Hungry.

Fence is happy, and his canines are piercing his bottom lip. Small streams of blood trickle down his chin.

The girl is slumped in his arms, talking in tongues, whipping her shoulders back and forth, back and forth. It's all I can do to keep from laughing.

Fence puts his finger to his mouth, hardly able to contain himself. After he gives me a stern look, I stifle the last of my giggles. One of Fence's Golden Rules is, “Always remain in character.” But this bitch is just so melodramatic, I can't help myself.

“If,” says Fence, in a deep, gravelly, and completely fake voice, “you wish to be turned into a child of the night,” now, he's looking into the face of this girl, this poor, young girl, dressed in all black, some poor misguided kid who actually believes in vampires, “then speak. Call me by my real name.”

This poor girl, she twitches and makes her way up to make eye contact with Fence, and she says, her voice not her own, “Alexander.”

This time, I can't help it. Laughter explodes from my lungs, and in the moment before Fence silences me, the girl looks like she's about to wake up.

Now that I can't talk, laugh, or make any noise whatsoever, I sit watching Fence, holding this goth girl in his arms, promising her eternal life in some language it seems like only she knows.

“I'm here to give you the gift of the Eternal Night,” he whispers in her ear. The girl goes stiff, eyes wide open.

“I'm here to give you the gift of Eternal Life.”

There is a slight twitch.

“With these two teeth, I thee wed...”

Fence leans down and bites her neck—hard. Harder than usual. He pulls out quick, but the damage is done—two large puncture wounds on the side of the young girl's neck. Right above the jugular.

Fence stands up, silhouetted by the moonlight. His outline shifts as he wipes the blood from his mouth.

“You ought to try out for the Sandwich Theater down the street,” I say.

“Fuck you,” he chuckles.

“Seriously. You'd make a great Boo Radley.”

“Who?”

“Nevermind. Come on you fucking corny bastard. 'With these two teeth I thee wed.' Dumbest shit I've ever heard.”

“Did you see her though?” he chuckles. “She was fucking digging it.”

“Will she be ok?”

Fence looks down at the body of the goth girl. A small pool of blood has collected at the base of her neck, but it's stopped flowing from the puncture wounds Fence left her.

“She'll be a little disappointed when she wakes up and finds out she can still go out in the Sun without burning to death. But she'll never forget this night.”

I laugh as I follow him out of the apartment and down the stairs. “So are you the memory fairy? Granting people memories that will help them understand what life is really all about?”

Fence stops mid step, spins around on his heels. I almost crash into him before clamoring to find the railing.

“When have you ever known me to want to help anyone but myself?”

I have to admit, it was stupid to think that Fence's intentions were anything but selfish. After all, the guy was a fucking vampire.

By the time Fence and I finish eating breakfast at an all-night diner on Stuart's Way, the Sun is blinking over the top of the old warehouse across the street. The air is full stink; namely, sausage and maple syrup. It's all the bastard eats. Sausage. Drenched in maple syrup. He drinks it down. It's basically a maple sausage cocktail.

“Sun's up,” I say, flicking the butt of my cigarette into the dingy metal ashtray next to the syrup bottle.

“He won't give a shit,” he spits through a mouthful of the stuff. A mixture of drool and syrup drips down his stubble-spotted chin.

“No, it's in the deal. And we can't risk it.”

“He won't give a shit.”

I grab his hand, and slam the butt of my cigarette right in the middle of his palm.

“But you PROMISED me.”

He jerks his hand back, but his face remains stone. “Ok, ok. Look, sometimes I forget how important this is to you. I'll take you back. Can I finish?”

I shake my head. “You know as well as I do—check in is at 7 every morning. Not a second later. Dock 78.”

He nods, no disappointment, no surprise, barely acknowledgment. He takes up his fork in the hand I burned. On his palm, the wound slowly shrinks, sizzling occasionally as if hydrogen peroxide has been poured over it. He wolfs down three sausages at once, the syrup, viscous, dripping down his chin, a molasses that seems to take hundreds of years to slowly fall from his face.

He wipes his mouth, but not the table. I can't help but laugh. “Fence,” I say. “You can get some more syrup later on. You know I have to be back before...”

We both look out at the pink shades highlighting the sky.

“Cool,” he says, pulling a twenty from his pocket and slamming it on the table. “Let's roll.”

“You're late,” says Warden Ponchus as he hurries down the concrete ramp we parked next to. “You shouldn't be late.”

Ponchus is standing in the shadow of the Lot 26 Warehouse at Cerbus Prison for Women. My home.

“Come on Dana, let's go.” Ponchus shuffles over to me, taking my arm tenderly, his old man smell drifting in the breeze. “We need to make it in quick, before the guards get into your block.” His breath tussles the long hair of his unkempt gray moustache.

“See you tomorrow Fence!” I say as Ponchus leads me into the warehouse.

“Tomorrow Dana. Try not to fall asleep.”

The night is cool and still. There's no sound until Ponchus raises up the metal door of the warehouse with an offensive clamor. Inside, I jump to grab the handle for the old man, and pull it down myself.

“Are you still having problems staying awake?” he says as he locks the door.

“Are you still having problems staying away from young boys?” I say, prodding his chest with my finger.

“Touche.”

We both turn around to look at the emptiness. Football fields worth of concrete. Flickering fluorescent lamps hang from the ceiling. Five minutes walk away, there's a door, and behind it, the hallway that will lead me back to captivity.

“We're lucky,” Ponchus says, “that this place is still here. They wanted to make it into a sex offenders quarters. Said it would be better for the whole population.”

He hands me a gym bag. “Thanks,” I say, unzipping it and beginning to undress.

“But, as you can see, that plan fell through.”

“What happened?” I say, pulling my bright orange jump suit from the bag.

“Fence Ranier happened.”

“And you still say he did it for me?”

Ponchus laughs. “Hell Dana—who else would he do it for?”

“Himself. Same guy he's always doing shit for.”

They know—the other inmates—about me going out at night. But nobody questions me. Even my cellmate, Cleo. She knows the drill. People have asked questions before. People that got hurt later.

“Missed meatloaf,” says Cleo as Ponchus slams the gate shut behind me.

“Yeah?” I ask as I heave myself up onto the top bunk. A cloud of dust swirls around me. Fucking place is full of it. Dust. Dead matter.

“Yeah, it was pretty gross.”

Cleo stands up and stretches, her tattooed arms extending from the long sleeves of her jumpsuit. A crying tiger. A yin yang colored red as blood. And my favorite, a perfect sphere. Two dimensional, no doubt, but that thing was a fucking optical illusion. No matter what angle you stared at it, it seemed to float above her rippling forearms.

“I'm gonna hit it,” says Cleo, twirling her long, black hair around her slender neck. “You staying up?”

“Nah,” I say, rolling over. “Good night Cleo.”

“Night D. Sleep well.”

Cleo knows a lot of things. She doesn't know that the last thing I need is sleep.

The first night I met Fence I was drunk and pissed off.

Right now, I couldn't tell you why I was drunk and pissed off, but I was. So pissed off, in fact, that I left the party of people who actually wanted to keep me from running in front of a bus.

But the streets were empty, and the park across the street from Tad's Place was huge. The perfect place to go be alone with the bottle of vodka I snagged from the bar.

I think...I think it was this guy hitting on me. I vaguely remember someone saying, “Your tits aren't saggy, they're natural,” and someone else saying, “Yeah! Naturally saggy!”

Fucking frat boys.

In the park, I find refuge in a large, spacious bush. My plan: drink until I pass out. Make sure bottle is capped. Wake up. Drink rest of bottle, go home, kill myself.

The leaves of the bush brush my face. I tilt the bottle back and take a careful gulp. I have to make sure there's at least something left for when I wake up.

“You deserve this...”

But that sentiment doesn't last long. There are two people, no less than six feet away from me.

“This is it, Ranier,” says the one wearing a leather jacket over a white shirt. Jeans. Doc Martens. And he's carrying a crossbow.

The other one—the one dressed in one long black trench coat and black everything else?--he just laughs.

The sounds are all variations of crushes. There are crushes that seem to form a melody. Crushes that offer legitimate counterpoint to the harmony of the screams. Crushes that seem to be orchestrated by someone beforehand.

Fuck it, I think. I can get more booze tomorrow.

I'm about to finish drinking the last of my bottle when the thick foliage parts before my eyes, the leaves and branches perfectly divided by long, moon-white fingers.

“Moses,” is the first word out of my mouth.

“No, Fence,” he says to me, mouth gleaming black in the moonlight. “Fence Ranier. Wanna live forever?”

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