Goldfish Drowning

S M Finney
Copyright Ó 2005 by Sean
Mitchell Finney
Chapter One
Silas
The dreams come like thunder,
dreaming in sound. Imagine
walls caving in on themselves,
white plaster and asbestos
blanketing the floors and
surfaces, filling the air. A
woman’s voice speaks softly
but I cannot understand the
words over sounds of running
water, pipes and drains,
thunder. Images of lipstick-red
lips leaving marks on broken
mirrors. Fragile skin, pale as
bone, as white as desire.
Awake in a porcelain
bathtub, an inch or two of dirty
water seeping into the pores of
my brown and yellow skin. I
lift my arms, shaking as if I’m
cold but I don’t feel anything.
My teeth are chattering. Voices
through faded walls covered in
layers of paint and dust.
Sounds of a dripping faucet. I
roll my head around,
struggling to keep my eyes
open.
A rest room with an
overflowing toilet, a cracked
glass vase beside the sink,
wilted brown roses. I’m nude,
wet, my body is shaking. I
wrap my arms around myself
as the muscles in my legs and
arms strain to portray the
motions of lifting myself out of
the bathtub.
My hand moves to scratch an
itch on my shoulder but there
is something wrong with my
hand. I look at the hand, the
knuckles, the fingers. Then I
notice something. I am missing
one of my fingers and it seems
like I would remember
something like that. Between
my thumb and middle finger
on my right hand there is
empty space where the finger
is supposed to be. Where the
knuckle ends, the skin trails off
in a lump of pink and gray scar
tissue. I have no memory of
missing a finger, but I have no
memory of anything else
either, at the moment, except
for my first name. Silas.
I grab a blue towel from the
floor and begin to dry myself
off. I don’t recognize the rest
room and it’s very likely I have
no idea where I am or who
lives here.
The last thing I
remember, a plane fell from
the sky. Women were holding
children, men were running in
circles seeking cover,
collecting their families. I
remember the sound of
machines being thrown across
the sky, like bombs screaming,
explosions.
I find a half empty
pack of cigarettes in the
bathroom sink, along with a
lighter. The pack is dry and I
light a cigarette, almost by
instinct. I take a deep breath.
Sound of a door opening,
closing. Footsteps. I open a
cabinet beneath the sink and
pull out a dirty pair of pants
with a belt fastened at the
waist. I undo the belt and pull
the pants on. They fit
reasonably well and it’s
possible that they belong to
me. I find a rusted straight
razor in the drug cabinet with a
chipped brown handle. I stick
the razor in my pants pocket,
just in case.
I feel a large lump in the back
pocket of the pants and I pull
out a hand carved wooden box,
dark wood with intricate
designs stabbed into the grain.
I open it and it’s full of thick
strands of brown, almost
blonde hair. I pause a moment,
poke the middle finger of my
right hand through the tangled
strands in the box until my
finger pulls back in reflex from
a sharp sting. A thin line of
blood trails down the edge of
my finger. I pull the wad of
hair out of the box and at the
bottom is a thin, double-edged
razor blade. I stuff the hair in
the box and shut it. This is the
kind of thing that means one
thousand things at once to the
person who would carry it
around in his back pocket. But
it holds no memories for me
now. Nothing. So I set it in the
bathroom sink and I run cold
water over it for no real reason
at all.
I smoke the cigarette for a
moment before trying the
doorknob. The door is
unlocked and I push it open
slowly. A voice in the back of
my head is telling me to be
careful, though I’m not entirely
sure why. And it doesn’t seem
like something I would do,
though those details seem to be
hazy, at the moment. The door
opens into a room with
hardwood floors, a decrepit
dining table with two chairs
positioned randomly and a
desk with a computer, turned
off, and a chair that looks like
it belongs in an office building,
wheels, plastic frame,
cushioned. Sounds of someone
typing at a keyboard but
there’s no one at the computer.
I step into the living room,
make my way into what
appears to be the kitchen. I
instinctively check to see if the
oven is on. I test the burners
with my palm. I open the
refrigerator, full of food, some
of it seeming to collect mold in
plastic containers with the lids
half pulled open. I finish the
cigarette and put it out in a
dirty coffee mug in the sink
full of brown water.
As shaken as this apartment is,
destroyed and aesthetic in a
way that must reflect the
occupant’s mind, it holds the
sterility and stranger’s breath
of an empty motel room and I
don’t know why. Maybe this is
because I am dying. I let out
two tones of a giggle and my
mind begins to dissect the
word Relax until it’s
impossible, meaningless.
A door opens
somewhere and a woman’s
voice mumbles something that
I can’t understand. I turn
around and the woman is
facing me. I smell the blood of
insects on her breath, the dim,
hazy smoke of sadness. She
doesn’t look entirely too
concerned, so I figure she may
know me, or at least have
expected me to be in here. The
stranger’s breath must belong
to her. She wears sunglasses in
the blanketed darkness, the
absence of light coming in
through boarded up windows.
Her hair is strawberry blonde
in the unnatural shadows,
almost curly and it hangs down
over her forehead like curtains
parting for the window of her
face.
“Hello.” She says,
setting a large white purse on
the floor next to the computer
desk. “You’re finally awake.”
I glance around the
room, sizing up what I should
say.
I take a breath.
“Where am I?”
“My apartment.” She
speaks slowly, mechanically,
as if I’m a special Ed kid who
needs all the time in the world
to understand simple phrases
and commands. Then again,
maybe I am that kid.
I wonder how much
she knows about me that I
don’t.
I watch her walk into
the living room and sit on a
large, fake leather couch. She
sits delicately, folding one pale
leg over the other. She wears a
pink fluffy skirt, black boots
with stiletto heels and a black
tank top. Her lips are bright
red.
“You look confused.”
She folds her arms across her
belly. Images of surgery,
broken ribs in a pouring rain,
the unanticipated reactions of a
German Shepherd to the drawn
out burst of lightning bolts,
thunder shaking windows out
of their frames. Somehow. I
imagine her burst bladder is
being removed and the doctors
stitch her up with bleach-
sterilized shoelaces and she
never pays the bills and runs
away to Mexico to escape debt
collectors and there is
something very wrong with
me. There’s something wrong
with me, but the notion quickly
passes.
“I might be
confused.” I shrug.
“How’d you lose that
finger?” She asks, gesturing
with a nod of her head toward
my right hand.
“I…don’t know.” I
stare at the scar tissue at the
end of my knuckle and shrug.
“Don’t remember?”
She asks.
“I guess not.” I shrug
again. I have a feeling I am
going to be doing a lot of
shrugging this evening.
“Did you hear the
explosions?” Her voice is…
soothing, almost medical. I
want to be wrapped up in her
voice like a burn victim, a lost
little puppy that has wandered
through the desert and snow
looking for his owner’s home.
And who is my owner, who is
she.
I step into the living
room and stand by the window,
feeling anxious, unsure if I
should sit beside her or not. I
continue to stand, stand up tall
but I’d be happy to fall. The
rhyme scratches holes in the
roof of my mind and I wish I
could stop thinking to myself,
just for a little while.
“I definitely
remember something like
that.” I nod. “Thunder, broken
windows. Might have been a…
dream, though. I dream
sometimes…I think. When I’m
awake.”
“You might have
dreamed it.” She says. “But it
also happened. You must have
slept through it.” Her voice is a
baby carriage rolling down a
stone staircase and I tell myself
this thought is from a movie, it
isn’t real.
“I sleep through
everything. I think.” I shrug.
“When was the last
time you ate something?” She
asks, not moving, her lips
barely forming the words. I
wonder if her heart is beating.
“I’m sorry…” I clear
my throat, lean against the
window frame. “I…I don’t
know where I am.”
“I’m not surprised.”
She smiles. The eye contact
makes me nervous. I feel like
she’s a crowded room, an
interrogation spot light burning
holes in my retinas, but that’s
only paranoia, fear.
“Should I know you?”
I scratch my belly, take a
breath.
“Maybe.” She shrugs
and presses the palms of her
hands together as if to pray.
She stands and walks into the
kitchen. I take the opportunity
to step into the bathroom to
grab the cigarettes and lighter
and I notice a small bundle on
the floor beneath the sink. I
grab at it and realize it’s my
shirt, a black tee shirt wrapped
around a rosary with wooden
and amber beads and a copper
crucifix. I hadn’t realized I was
shirtless and she didn’t seem to
mind. I pull the shirt on and
stick the rosary in my pocket
while the woman begins to talk
to me from the kitchen. Sounds
of a coffee machine bubbling,
silverware and dishes
clattering together in a sink,
running water.
The noises from outside are
that of a construction site, a
war zone. Sounds of heavy
machines struggling with tons
of stone and steel, frantic,
screaming voices, sirens, force
of fire hoses and sounds of
rumbling, hiss of water on
burning shards of glass and
metal. Putting out the fires
that break out in the remainder
of the wreckage. I try to lean
over to the bathroom window
but the glass is blurred and
faded yellow. The window is
not very clear, but neither are
my thoughts right now, neither
are my thoughts.
Cassie starts saying
something from another part of
the apartment but I can’t
understand anything she is
saying over the sounds of
kitchen appliances humming,
clicking on and off, on and off.
When I glance at my reflection
in the mirror, all sounds
disappear and I take a deep
breath.
The eyes are swollen, black
and bruised. Lips, blistered and
scabbed. My face is a fright. It
appears I’ve taken quite a
beating, though I have no
recollection of it. And my head
is shaved. I don’t remember
having my head shaved. I light
a cigarette, stare at myself in
the mirror, fascinated.
“Where are my boots?” My
voice is an echo in the back of
my throat.
“What?” Her voice
from the kitchen, sounds of a
microwave, something
popping.
“My boots.” I say.
“I didn’t see any
boots.”
A moment passes. I
continue examining myself.
She’s cooking something in the
kitchen. I don’t recognize the
face in the mirror, and oh that
sounds so pathetic, but, there
he is and it’s only a reflection.
My face in the mirror is a
stranger, and the dimly lit fog
of a panicked breath in the
darkness could be mine.
“Do you like
omelets?” She asks. She’s only
in the kitchen, a step or two
away from me but her voice is
a mile away, her mouth
mumbles the sounds of being
bound with duct tape.
“I…don’t know. Is the
oven on?” I seem nervous
about the oven, though I don’t
know why. A childhood
accident, perhaps. Or the
nonsense paranoia of a mental
patient.
“No.” She speaks
flatly.
“Are you cooking
omelets?” I ask.
“No.”
“Where did you find
me?” I give up on the mirror
and stand in the bathroom
doorway, leaning against the
doorframe.
“What do you mean?”
She stands where I can see her
and looks at me.
“How did I get here?”
I ask.
There’s a knock on
the door. I close my eyes.
Images of blood stained
bathtubs, black bath water,
broken mirrors, red lipstick
smeared on pale white walls.
Silence. Another knock,
louder. I open my eyes and the
mirror is shattered, shards of it
fallen into the sink circling
around the drain. I didn’t break
her mirror. I close my eyes
again and when I open them
the mirror isn’t broken at all.
Flash of light and the blood on
my hands is not only my own.
I hear my voice. “Are
you going to answer the door?”
“What door?” Cassie
says, back in the kitchen again.
“I mean…I didn’t hear
anything.”
Another knock, so
loud the walls begin to shake.
“There’s someone at
the door.” I say.
“I don’t hear
anything.” I see the blur of her
face and she shrugs her
shoulders. I can’t tell if we’re
making eye contact or not.
I pause, take a deep
breath, pull a cigarette out of
the pack, fumble with the
lighter. Silence.
“I could have sworn there was
someone at the door.” The
sound of my own voice startles
me, though I know it’s not
supposed to.
“Nope.” Cassie says,
then disappears into the
kitchen again. Sounds of
something frying on the stove.
“I didn’t hear anything.”
I walk into the living
room and light a cigarette. I
look into the kitchen and she’s
standing beside the
refrigerator, staring at a spot on
the floor. There’s nothing on
the stove. The microwave is
not on.
“Aren’t you cooking
something?”
She looks up at me in
a daze, her eyes glassy and
wide. “You’re hungry?”
I breathe in smoke,
exhale, flick ashes into an
empty flowerpot on a little
table in the corner. “Sort of.
No. I heard something
cooking.”
“Nothing’s cooking.”
“Am I going insane?”
The question is meaningless,
but I anticipate her answer like
a dog drooling beneath a
dangling milk bone, stuck in
midair.
She grins faintly, rubs
a spot on her upper arm. She
takes a breath, her breasts
heaving slightly. “Probably.”
For an instant I
imagine what she would look
like with her throat slit open,
blood creeping out of
important veins and arteries
onto her nice black tank top. A
shirt like that won’t show
blood. I don’t want to see her
like that and the image is
involuntary.
“What are you
thinking about?” She asks.
I shudder, snapping
out of the daydream. “I don’t
know. Nothing.” Then after a
pause. “What’s your name?”
“Why?” She asks.
I imagine she’s frowning,
pressing her lips together until
they begin to turn white, but I
could be making it up because
I’m not looking at her. I feel
hesitant to focus on the empty
spaces around her eyes, the
eyes themselves. I don’t want
to see through anything into
her soul right now.
After a moment, I say,
“I…don’t know.”
“Good answer.” She
says. “Cassie.”
“Cassie. Pretty
name.”
“No.” She says. “It’s
not.”
“My name is…Silas.”
I pause a moment before
deciding it’s not a lie. I said the
name before I remembered it,
but now that it’s spoken I
realize it has to be the truth.
“Silas.” She says.
“That’s not a very pretty name.
But it’s nice to meet you.”
She crosses the
kitchen and holds her hand
towards me. I flinch and back
away from her. She lowers her
hand and frowns faintly, turns
around and walks into the
kitchen and opens the
refrigerator. She pulls out a jar
of jam and tries to open it. She
approaches me and hands it to
me.
“Open this, please.”
I grab the jar and
twist the top off it and hand it
back to her. As close to a
handshake as I am comfortable
with, at the moment. She takes
the jam jar without expression
and walks back into the
kitchen. She leans against the
kitchen sink, facing me, scoops
out little fingers full of jam and
sticks them into her mouth,
sighing lightly. She does not
do this sexually, in any way,
but I cannot help thinking of it
that way.
“So.” I mumble,
rubbing my eyes. “You said
something about explosions?”
“Planes fall from the
sky.” She says, her mouth full
of purple jam, probably grape.
“All the time.”
“That’s…debatable.
But, okay. So a plane fell from
the sky.”
There’s another knock
on the door. I ignore it this
time because it’s only another
illusion, an auditory
hallucination, but Cassie sets
the jam jar on the kitchen
counter and walks to the door.
She opens the door and steps
outside, then closes the door
behind her. Sounds of voices
on the other side of the door,
whispers. I feel a tight knot in
my stomach, take a deep
breath, light another cigarette.

Chapter Two
Cassie

“You shouldn’t be
protecting him, girl. It’s just…
bad medicine. It’s not your
concern, sticking your nose in
it. Let me have him.”
“No. You’re just
going to try to kill him…
again.”
“Maybe he deserves
it. Should be dead all ready.”
“He doesn’t
remember anything. Just leave
him alone.”
“Not that easy, girl.
You saw what happened.”
“Some of it. I was
bringing groceries home.”
“You get some
peaches? An already mixed
bag of salad?”
“Go home.”
“Some cranberry
juice? Sheep skin condoms?”
“Go home. I’m
locking the door.”
“You be careful, girl.
Lots of animals come out…
after the sun goes down.”
“You’re an idiot. Go away.”
“Up the airy mountain,
woman. This isn’t over.”
“Go feed your daughter more
bacon.”
“We’re out of bacon.”
“Oh my. What ever will you
do.”
“I’ll think of something. That
girl’s got to have her bacon.”
“Okay. Thanks for stopping
by.”
“You’re not fooling anybody,
girl.”
“Thanks. Goodbye.”

Chapter Three
Silas

An alarm in one of
the rooms, probably the
bedroom, it starts going off.
While Cassie is talking to
whoever is out there in the
hallway I search the rooms and
closets for the source of the
alarm, but I can’t find
anything. I realize there aren’t
any clocks in this apartment, or
else they’re all just hidden for
some reason. The alarm seems
to be getting louder. I open up
the closet in the bedroom and
there aren’t any clothes or
anything at all in there, not
even boxes. I close the closet
door. The bedroom is blank
white walls and a bare
mattress.
Sound of the front door
opening, then closing. The
alarm immediately shuts off.
Sounds of traffic outside, birds
singing, machines scraping
against metal and soil, debris,
police and ambulance and fire
truck sirens.
Curtains cover the windows in
the bedroom, layers of
cardboard taped together. But
there is light coming from
somewhere. I smoke a
cigarette in the bedroom, stare
at the bed for some reason,
with a feeling that I’ve slept
there before, but I have no
recollection of doing so.
Cassie appears at the
doorway to the bedroom. I feel
like she should be annoyed that
I’m in here, but she doesn’t
seem to mind.
“You’re sure you’re not
hungry?” She asks.
“I’m hungry.” I nod,
rub my belly.
“Don’t ash on the
floor.” She says.
“I wasn’t going to.” I
frown, look down at the
cigarette turning to an inch of
ash between my pale white
knuckles.
“Where are you going
to ash?” She asks, grinning.
“I hadn’t…thought
about that.” I shrug.
“I don’t have any
ashtrays.” She says.
“Whose cigarettes are
these?”
“Yours, I think. They
were in your pocket.”
“Where was I?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
“Where…did you find
me?”
“In the hallway.” She presses
her lips together. I imagine
she’s grinding her teeth to dust
but she’s probably not.
“You found me in the
hallway?”
“You were
unconscious.” She leans
against the wall and breathes
from her chest. “And you were
bleeding on the floor. You
didn’t have a pulse…when I
found you. But…I guess you
got better.”
“I was…dead?”
“Technically. I
guess.” She shrugs.
“What happened to
me?” The question frightens
me, and it brings a feeling of
nausea at the bottom of what I
can only assume is my
stomach. But I don’t know
what else to ask and I feel like
I have to ask something.
"What do you mean?” She
says.
“My face is all…
fucked up.”
“I don’t know. You
were probably in a fight, I
guess.”
Something in the back of my
head, like a reflex, it tells me
she may not be telling the
truth. I don’t know why she
would be lying to me, but I
can’t shake the feeling.
“Yeah, I guess so.” I
pop the bones in my neck, take
a deep breath. “Who else lives
in this building?”
“I don’t know.” She
shrugs. “Lots of people. We
don’t really talk to each other.”
“Any one I might
have gotten in a fight with?” A
flash in the back of my mind,
the silver blade of a knife
ripping through empty air in
the sunlight coming in through
broken windows…blank white
walls and the blood is running
down the slopes of my neck
and into my mouth. I shake my
head and the vision dissipates
into nothing. The earth opens
up, but there is nothing left for
it to swallow. The earth opens
up and I could have been the
one holding the knife.
“Maybe. I don’t
know.” Cassie says. “We don’t
really know each other, or
anything.”
I get the feeling that
she’s lying again, and I don’t
know why. She seems like a
good person but I don’t know
if I am a very good judge of
character, or not. At the
moment I don’t know much
about myself, it would seem.
“Okay.” I shrug.
“You looked pretty
bad, and you…pissed
yourself…but I cleaned you up
a little bit.” She says. “You’ll
be all right. One of your ribs
might be broken, though. I
noticed it when I…undressed
you. It’s poking out through
your skin a little bit.”
I graze my palm along
my side. I feel a lump where I
imagine my ribs are, just above
the hips. There should be pain.
I know there is supposed to be
pain and its absence is
troubling, though I am sure I
should be thankful for it.
“I feel it. But…” I
take a breath, exhale smoke. “I
don’t feel…pain.”
“Why not?” She asks,
crossing her arms in front of
her chest, leaning against the
doorframe.
“I don’t know.” I
shrug. “I just…don’t.”
A moment passes. She
walks into another room in the
apartment without saying
anything else. I start to talk
even though she may not hear
me. “I’m not intruding am I? I
mean, I can leave if you want.
I just…I’m kind of out of it, I
think.”
Her voice from the
living room: “You can’t leave,
Silas.”
“I can’t?” I feel my
eyes squint. I take a breath and
shake off the feeling that I
should be on the defensive. I
tell myself Cassie does not
pose a threat, and after a
moment, my instincts begin to
believe me.
“That’s right.” She
says. Her voice is under water
and one thousand miles away.
Or I’m going deaf. I shake my
head and the sounds become
clear again.
“Why not?” I walk
into the living room where
she’s leaning over the couch,
lighting candles on a table
against the wall. “Why can’t I
leave?”
“Because.” She says.
“The building is destroyed,
falling apart.”
“What do you mean?”
“A plane.” She says,
lighting a match, crossing the
room to light more candles.
“An airplane of some kind
crashed into the building. The
walls are caving in on
themselves. The stairs are all
crumbled. Half the building is
caved in already. We’re five
floors up. There’s no way to
get out.”
“Was I on the plane?”
I ask, unsure of whether this is
a stupid question or not. Then I
remember something my
mother told me about stupid
questions and I start to feel a
little bit better about myself
already.
“What?” She says.
“Was I a passenger?
On the plane?” I don’t know
how else to phrase that
question.
“You don’t know?”
She gives me a look and it
seems like she should cut me
some slack, but either way, I’m
not so sure any of it actually
matters.
“There’s something…
wrong with me.” I shrug.
“No, you weren’t on
the plane, Silas. If you were on
the plane, you would probably
be dead.” She mumbles
something beneath her breath.
“The plane is downstairs. I
found you in the hallway. The
plane hit the building while
you were in the bath.”
I breathe, put the
cigarette out in a stained coffee
mug on a coffee table in the
living room. “Well, how long
until…I don’t know, until the
rescue team, or whatever, gets
us out of here?”
She finishes lighting candles
all around the apartment and
she shakes the match out in the
air, then drops it into a black
bowl on a table full of coins
and strips of paper with phone
numbers and little abstract
sketches scribbled on them. “I
don’t know. Maybe never.”
She says. “This area isn’t
exactly…a priority.”
“What do you mean?”
“No one cares about
us.” She says.
Her face is sculpted
out of clay, her eyes set deep
into her skull, a thick and
delicate dark blue. She’s
somewhat striking. Not
altogether healthy looking, but
she seems reasonably fit, a
little bit beautiful at just the
right angle in the candlelight.
“Why are the
windows covered up?” I ask.
“To block out the
sun.” She says, grinning in the
shadows.
“I think I should
probably leave.” I say, starting
to pace slowly, awkwardly
around the room. “Or try to
leave.”
The impossible
situation is meaningless to me
and I wonder if I am capable of
feeling anything. But Cassie’s
breath from across the room is
a pale mist of fear, masked
panic and I choke on a
momentary feeling of dread
and…there. I felt something.
Now I can wander off to find a
good place to die. The bathtub,
maybe.
“I don’t know how
safe it is…” She says, walking
into the bedroom, shutting the
door behind her. “…out there
in the hallway. But do what
you like.”
“I’m going to need
my boots.” I say.
The sound of my voice is
followed by silence. I open a
closet by the front door and it’s
empty, void of anything that is
supposed to be inside of a
closet. I’m pretty sure my
boots are not in this apartment.
Call it a hunch, I don’t know. I
find a pair of black socks in a
straw basket near the kitchen
and I put them on. It’s not the
same as boots, or even a pair
of flip-flops, but the socks will
provide at least a thin layer
between the soft skin of my
feet and the germs and grime
and jagged bits of metal and
glass that may or may not be
completely covering the floors
of the hallway outside of
Cassie’s apartment. I step out
into the hallway and it looks
exactly as I had imagined it in
the back of my mind. I take a
deep breath and I close
Cassie’s door behind me.

The hallway is a
disaster. Dust and debris
scattered around the floor that
seems to be made of wood,
withered with age, blistered,
swollen, and cracking apart.
The walls are plaster and wood
and are half destroyed, hanging
loose like cobwebs. Gaping
holes in the walls show
exposed wires and pipes. A
smell in the air like dust and
musk and chemicals.
Everything is gray and
corroded, the color of smoke. I
take a deep breath and choke
on the air. Sounds of running
water and voices behind
crumbled walls and closed
doors.
I hear Cassie’s door
lock behind me, and I make
my way down one end of the
hall toward what seems to be a
staircase going…down. Cassie
was right, the stairs are
completely destroyed,
crumbled into piles of broken
boards and plaster, deformed
bits of metal and screws. Dust
is still settling on the debris. I
try not to breathe too deeply
for fear of poisoning myself
with the air.
I walk down the other
end of the hallway, passed
numbered doors with sounds
of conversations and
televisions coming from
within. The other end of the
hallway stops abruptly at a
blank wall. I take a breath, turn
around and walk back toward
Cassie’s apartment. I try the
doorknob but it’s locked. I
knock and after a moment I
decide she’s not going to
answer the door. Maybe I’ve
over stayed my welcome all
ready, or maybe she’s taking a
shower. I knock on the next
door down from hers and after
a moment the door opens.

Chapter Four
Wilbur

Martha wraps a shawl

around her head, humming
softly under her breath. She
ties a knot around her chin and
sits back on the couch and
watches the ballgame with me.
“Why’s it on mute?”
She asks.
“I told you, woman. I
don’t like them telling me
what’s going on, as if I’m not
sitting right here watching the
damn thing myself. It’s
distracting.”
She shakes her head
around softly, humming.
“There’s something wrong
with you.”
I watch an incomplete
pass on the TV and curse
whichever team I’m supposed
to be cheering for beneath my
breath.
“There’s nothing wrong with
me.” I say.
“When can I watch
my stories?” She asks.
“When the game’s
over.”
“When will the game
be over?”
“When ever the hell I
says it is, woman. Hush now.
Let me watch the damn game.”
She stands up and
walks across the television and
stands by the window, staring
out into the horizon. “Another
plane crash.” She says.
“Reckon the stairs are gone
again?”
“Reckon so.” I’m
staring at the game, unable to
concentrate.
“The whole world is
coming to an end.” She says.
“Fine by me.” I shrug
my shoulders and I take a deep
breath, wishing Martha would
just shut the hell up.
She turns to look at
me with her hands on her hips.
“You really dislike it
here so much?” She asks with
that bitter whine in her voice
that she knows I hate.
“I dislike it
everywhere.” I say, clearing
my throat. “The reception on
this TV has gone straight to
hell.”
“We can buy a new
TV.” She says.
“No, we can’t, god
damn it. We don’t have any
money, woman. And the stairs
are gone. Again.”
“You’re always so
angry.” She sighs.
“Do you blame me?”
My voice is almost a hiss. The
sound of it surprises even me.
I turn to look at her for the first
time since the game started.
She turns away to look out the
window again. I bite my lip,
harder than I mean to. I turn
my attention back to the game.
One of the teams is losing
badly but I have no idea which
one. I don’t even know who’s
playing anymore. I don’t
recognize the team colors and
the scores are blurry, distorted,
and without the sound I really
don’t know what is going on.
“The reception on this
television set is completely
fucked.” I say.
“I wonder if the
passengers are okay.” She
moans faintly beneath her
breath while staring out the
window.
“Maybe. Some of
them.” I shrug my shoulders.
“Where do you think
it hit?” She asks.
“I don’t know,
woman. The side, I guess.
Knocked our dishes out of the
cabinets pretty good, huh?”
“Yeah. The fine china
is destroyed.” She lets out a
breath of air.
“We have fine china?”
I ask, confused.
“Not anymore.” She
says.
The television screen
has almost completely become
static at this point. I give up on
trying to understand what’s
happening on the football. I
stare at the static instead.
“Think they’re going
to fix our stairs?” I ask.
“Maybe. Eventually.”
Martha says, clearing her
throat. “Reckon they’re busy
rescuing the passengers right
now.”
“You would think we
would hear something.” I grind
my teeth together as I speak,
for some reason. Maybe it’s
soothing, but it’s hard to tell on
a day like this. “No one has
tried to contact us for hours.
Lucky the power hasn’t gone
out. Sure wish we had running
water, though. I can hear it in
the pipes. Some of the
apartments still got water. Not
us though. Ain’t that the luck.”
“Happens all the
time.” She says, taking a deep
breath, sighing. “Figure they’re
more concerned with the plane
than the building.”
“People are people.” I
say, scratching an itch in my
crotch that won’t seem to ever
go away. “We’re going to
starve to death in here while
they’re busy fishing bodies out
of the wreckage. I can feel
myself suffocating all ready.
We’re going to die in here.
Like caged rats.”
“Don’t make such a
fuss.” Martha says. “The
windows are open. Fresh air. I
can hardly smell the dust
anymore.”
“What does dust
smell like, woman?” I ask,
wondering if we have any of
that good tuna fish left over so
I can make a sandwich.
“Like not being able
to breathe.” Martha says.
“What’s wrong with
you?” Turning around to look
at her. “Are you in shock?”
“I’m not in shock.”
She says. “I don’t feel
anything.”
“Well, that’s perfect.
That’s just great.” I wave my
hands in the air and turn my
attention back to the blur of
static on the television screen.
She turns around and
watches the static on the
television set as well, but only
for a moment.
“Who’s winning?” She asks.
“It doesn’t matter.” I
shrug, take a breath. “I don’t
even think the teams exist
anymore.”
She crosses the room
and disappears into the
bedroom.
“What are you
doing?” I ask, hollering at her,
louder than I actually need to.
“I’m changing
clothes.” She yells out from
the bedroom. “This dress is
ruined.”
“What’s wrong with
it?” I ask.
“It’s…dusty.”
There’s a knock at the
door. I take a deep breath and
stand up.
“Someone’s at the
door.” Martha says from the
bedroom.
“I’m not deaf,
woman.”
“Are you going to
answer it?”
I grab the single
barrel sawed off from beneath
the couch and stuff it into my
trousers. “Just hold on a
minute!”
Last time I opened the
door unarmed, a couple
niggers wore ski masks in our
home, holding guns to our
faces. It didn’t take them long
to realize we didn’t have
anything worth stealing. After
that, it didn’t matter. They
were already there and might
as well have made the best of
it. Which they did. What they
did to my face, my belly, it
took 157 stitches to repair. The
rape kit they used for Martha
came in a leather carrying
case. They retrieved hair and
semen samples from her. They
took us to the station and had
us go through hours and hours
of mug shots. The thing never
seemed to end. It had been a
month and a half since it
happened before we didn’t
have to answer questions or
talk to any cops anymore.
So now, no matter
what time of day, or if I know
the person at the other end of
the door, I don’t ever, ever
open this door with some sort
of weapon by my side.
I walk to the door with the
sawed off gripped tightly in
my hands and I unlock the
deadbolt.

Chapter Five
Silas

A large man wearing

a soiled wife beater with red,
glazed over eyes stands
hunched in the doorway. His
face is lowered but his eyes
meet mine and his mouth
twitches to form words, but no
sounds come out of his mouth.
“Hello.” I clear my
throat, trying to remember how
to smile and it doesn’t like it
should be so easy to forget
these things. “How…how are
you?”
He lifts his head, licks
his lips, grunts. “What can I do
for you?”
 The pale flesh of his
face matches the stains on the
wife beater he wears around
bruised layers of fat, folds of
skin covered with thick black
hairs.
“Um. I’m…lost.” My
voice is the whine of a
confused and frightened puppy.
“Well, not lost. But…I don’t
know where I am, exactly. And
I can’t seem to get out of
here.”
“Stairs are over
there.” He points towards the
end of the hallway. His fingers
are thick and greasy like
sausages and I’m only mildly
disgusted by my renewed
sense of hunger at the sight of
them.
“I know. I was just
there. The stairs are…gone.”
“Happens
sometimes.” He shrugs. “Like
to come in?”
“I suppose so. Yeah.”
He pulls the door
open wide and steps behind it.
I step into the apartment and
he closes the door behind me.
Flash of imagined light and the
knife falls form my hand in
what is slowly becoming a
stranger’s apartment though I
could have sworn I knew the
man like I once knew myself
just moments ago. The
memory fades like a passing
bus and I’m left only with
shadows.
“Martha.” The man
calls out, shaking my mind
loose from the vision, the
daydream that felt like
something more than that. “We
got company.”
“Is it the plumber?” A
woman’s voice from one of the
rooms in the apartment.
To me, the man says:
“Plumbing’s all fucked up. No
running water in here. Toilets
are over flowing.”
“Ah.” I say.
“No, ain’t the
plumber.” He yells. To me he
asks, “What do you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“For a…living.” His
eyes shrink to crescent moons,
sunken into the grim shadows
of his face.
“Oh. Nothing right
now. I just live.” I show him
my teeth and it’s supposed to
be a smile.
He chuckles briefly
without changing the features
of his face. “Martha, man here
says he don’t do nothing.”
“What’s he want?”
Martha’s voice is the sound of
fingernails on a chalkboard.
“Don’t know.” The
man says to the wall. Then to
me, he says: “What do you
want?”
“I don’t…I don’t
know. I’m just…stuck here.”
“He says he’s stuck
here.” He hollers so Martha
can hear him, then he steps
through the living room
towards a door next to the
kitchen where water is seeping
out through a crack at the
bottom of the doorframe.
“Martha, open the door.”
The door opens and
the man steps inside, shutting
the door behind him. I survey
the living room: Black file
cabinet with a television on top
of it, playing a football game
underneath another television
with a shattered screen. The
sound on the television is on
mute. I light a cigarette and sit
on the old torn up couch and I
look out the window at dead
tree branches covered with
scattered and ripped apart bird
nests with broken eggs,
cracked and dripping dead
embryo into the streets below.
Sounds of machines in the
distance, creaking wood,
bricks and stones falling
against hollow metal surfaces.
I breathe smoke, take a deep
breath, exhale. Look out the
window again. The trees begin
to sway in a breeze, then one
by one the branches begin
disconnect from the trunks of
the trees and fall down, out of
sight. Sounds of explosions,
thunder, things falling apart.
The man comes out of the
bedroom and sits on the couch
beside me. He sticks his hand
out with two fingers extended.
I hand him the cigarette and he
takes a drag, blows smoke in
the air. The smoke circles dead
light fixtures in the ceiling, the
walls. I feel a sting in my side.
It’s the first pain I’ve felt since
I woke up and it shouldn’t be
this easy to ignore it.
“Where are your
shoes?” The man asks.
“My boots.” I shrug,
looking at the floor. “I can’t
find them.”
“Lots of broken
glass.” He says, staring blankly
at the television. “Not good to
be walking around barefoot.”
“These socks are
pretty thick.” I rub my feet on
the floor, knowing the socks
are as thin as paper and I don’t
know why I feel a need to lie
to this man about my socks.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Your feet can get
infected. Lots of rusted metal
all over the building. You saw
how much crap is in the
hallway?”
“Like a bomb
dropped on it.”
“Yeah. It was bad
even before the airplane hit.
This whole building has been
falling apart for years.”
“Why doesn’t the
landlord do something about
it?”
“What landlord?” He
shrugs.
I feel thin muscles in
my face twist and convulse
involuntarily and I turn away,
stare at the static on the
television, decide to change the
subject.
“You born here?” I
ask.
“No.” He says.
“How’d you lose that finger?”
He asks this without averting
his eyes from the television
and I hadn’t figured he had
noticed the missing finger yet.
“Uh. I don’t know.”
“That’s…funny.” He
scratches his belly.
My nostrils flinch and
there’s a smell of bacon and
aerosol spray in the air, but
faint, probably coming form
the other end of the hallway. I
watch the silent football game
for a moment but the reception
is so bad I can’t tell what’s
going on. Either it’s snowing
on the field or the station is
going all to hell. Without the
sound on to tell us what’s
happening, play-by-play, it’s
impossible to tell who is
winning or losing, or what
teams are playing. I hand the
cigarette to the man and he
takes a drag.
“My name’s Silas.” I
tell him, leaning back in the
couch.
“Wilbur.” He says,
nodding gently. He hands the
cigarette back to me and I take
a drag before putting it out in
the ashtray on the coffee table.
The game goes to a
commercial and without
looking over at me, he says:
“Looks like you’ve been
roughed up a good bit, Silas.”
I smile faintly, nod. “I
guess so.”
“How you feelin?”
“Fine.” Light sting in
my side again. I focus on it and
it slowly fades away, like a
lingering fear before a
morphine shot takes hold and
melts the spine to jelly.
“You look half dead.”
The man says, still staring at
the increasing static on the
television screen. “Kicked in
the head a bit?”
“Maybe.” My mind is
a vacuum bag full of soil and
dust and split broom hairs,
caked with mud, grime,
invisible organs and severed
legs of a thousand insects.
“Don’t remember?”
Wilbur asks.
“Not…really.”
“Yeah. Sounds about
right. Concussion, maybe.
Brain damage. Internal
bleeding.”
I look at him and his
expression is blank,
expressionless, an unwritten
letter to a dozen relatives he
doesn’t really give a damn
about anyway.
“You a doctor?” I ask.
“Not really.” He
shrugs.
The game comes back
on. We watch it in silence for a
while. Seems like there would
be some special news
announcement about what’s
happening, but the game goes
on uninterrupted. A woman
comes out of the bedroom
wearing a jogging outfit under
an old tattered robe. She wears
thick eyeglasses and stands
beside the couch, staring at me.
“Hello.” I smile.
“Hello.” She says. “How do
you do?”
“Um. Well. I do well. How are
you?”
“Well enough. You
boys enjoying the game?”
Fingernails, chalkboard, but
her face is soft and alive.
She has color in her skin and
it’s almost soothing, in a way.
There is too much dust in my
brain, in my eyes and any color
at all right now seems like a
reflection of God to me.
“Uh.” I shrug.
“Can’t see no damn
game.” Wilbur grunts. “The
reception has gone all to hell.”
“It’s all black and
white.” The woman says. “We
need a new TV.”
“We can’t even go
outside.” Wilbur says. “And
we don’t have any money.”
“Wilbur, not in front
of company.” She sighs.
“This ain’t company.”
He points a thumb at me. “He’s
just stuck here.”
“Well, while he’s in
our home he’s our company.
Are you hungry, young man?”
“Oh, just a little.” My
stomach twists in half as if in
protest of the lie I’ve told
against its behalf.
“What, we’re going to
feed him now?” Wilbur grunts.
“Now, Wilbur. Don’t
be rude.” Martha says.
“Damn it, woman.
You’re the one wants to give
away all our damn food. God
knows when we’re going to be
able to go outside again. You
want us to starve to death?”
“Well, if we’re so
strapped for food why don’t
you just climb out the
window?” She crosses her
arms.
“Five floors up,
woman, and you want me to go
out the window to get some
damn soup? Some toaster
pastries, a nice scented candle?
Trying to get me killed, aren’t
you?”
He says this in a
blank monotone that confuses
me for a moment. I light a
cigarette and I offer him one
but he waves his hand in front
of it.
“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”
He shrugs.
I notice the woman is glaring
at the back of his head. I put
the pack in my pocket. I blow
smoke.
“Is it snowing
outside?” Martha asks.
“The fuck would I
know?” Wilbur grunts. “I look
like a weatherman?”
“You don’t have to be
a weatherman to look out the
damn window.”
“Shut it, Woman. I’m
watching the damn game.”
“You and your TV.
Can’t hear what they’re saying,
you can barely make out
what’s going on. We need a
new TV, Wilbur.”
“I told you to shut it.
We don’t need nothin.”
“We need to move,
that’s what we need to do.”
She says.
“I don’t see your ass
workin. Where you think we’re
gonna get money to move? Out
of your big fat ass?”
“Wilbur.” The woman
says, blank face. “You are a
son of a bitch.”
“And you’re a horse’s
ass.” Wilbur erupts into red-
faced laughter, his body
shaking absurdly, jellyrolls
jiggling out from beneath his
stained wife beater.
“So.” I start to speak,
then pause a moment because
they’re both staring at me now.
“You’re just going to sit it
out?”
“Sit what out?”
Wilbur asks, studying a space
on my forehead that could be a
bruise or a gaping hole, a
window through my skull
where he can see my brain
squirming and twisting in
circles like a soggy goldfish
inside a bulbous glass prison.
“The, uh, cave in, or
whatever.” I shrug.
“Oh, that happens all
the time. Don’t worry about it,
it’ll be cleared up in a day or
two.”
“Planes fall from the
sky all the time?” I heard this
from Cassie as well and I’m
not sure I fully understand it.
“Don’t you watch the
news?” Wilbur asks.
“Well, sometimes.” I
turn my head to the side like a
confused puppy, for some
reason. “I think so.”
“You don’t seem like
a man who is too sure of
himself.” He says.
“I’m sure I don’t.”
I…almost smile.
He takes a wheezing
breath. “That’s funny, what
you just said. I think that was
funny.”
“Okay.” I straighten
up and frown at this last
statement.
The woman stands up,
shakes her head, and
disappears into the bathroom.
Wilbur slaps my shoulder as if
about to cheer something or
welcome me into a club of
some kind but he doesn’t
follow it through. His
expression dies and his hands
fall stiffly to his lap. He faces
forward and says nothing for
several minutes after that. The
football game is over and there
is a commercial for greasy
fried chicken that resembles
human skin in a bonfire,
behind the flurry of static, a
thousand insects eating each
other, but I don’t know how I
could know that, and Wilbur
just stares at the television
screen.
I stand up to leave
and Wilbur doesn’t move. He
turns his head a little to face
me while I walk towards the
door but his eyes are glued on
the television screen as if the
static is hypnotizing him.
“Guess I’ll be seeing
you.” I wave my hand
awkwardly between us.
“Have a good day.”
He says, not looking at me.
“You be careful out there.”
“Will do.” My smile
quickly fades when he doesn’t
move. He doesn’t say anything
else after that so I open the
door and step into the hallway
and then close the door behind
me.

Chapter Six
Elliot

Bleach, antibacterial
sprays and deodorants, stacks
of vacuum sealed bars of
medical soap, latex and non-
latex gloves (in the case I
develop an allergic reaction to
latex), baskets of sterile hand
towels, bottles of rubbing
alcohol, sealed plastic
containers full of cotton swabs,
Q-tips, tongue depressors. No
germs, none.
I was a child when I
caught pneumonia. I lay at the
bottom of the pool for two and
a half minutes before the
lifeguard noticed me and dove
in to fish me out. There was a
lot of water in my lungs and I
spent a lot of that summer in
the hospital. I was the only kid
I knew that caught pneumonia
in the middle of summer.
I’ve had the common
cold one hundred and seventy
eight times. I’ve had the flu six
times.
It is necessary to have
a system, a strict discipline.
There is a way that things have
to be maintained at all times,
night or day, to maintain the
health and constitution. Other
wise, a man will fall pray to
uncontrollable circumstances.
In a world so rattled and
plagued with uncertainties and
danger, why allow yourself to
fall pray to the unpredictable
of nature and germs when
these things can so easily be
prevented with simple, basic
methods that, if kept up to
dated and practiced religiously,
will you keep you healthy,
happy, and secure for the rest
of your germ free, natural life?
I watch a shadow
clutter through the cracks in
the linoleum. The shadow is a
cockroach. I take slow, steady
breaths and reach behind my
couch for the baseball bat. I
find it, my fingers grip around
the handle. The trick is to
move slow, very slow. It is
dark enough for the cockroach
to think he is hiding. I tiptoe. I
get within five feet of him,
then four. He is faster than me,
but he is not smarter. Before he
can realize he is in danger, I
swing the bat down. The
linoleum cracks. I swing it
down again to make sure.
When I lift the bat up, the
cockroach is gone. I circle the
room, spinning with my eyes
focused on the floor. The
cockroach is gone. Then I
realize its splattered corpse is
stuck to the baseball bat. I toss
the baseball bat away in
disgust.
I live in a sterile
environment. I vacuum sealed
the front door so when it’s
locked no pollutants or germs
from my neighbors can get in.
I open the windows only when
it’s too hot and the air
conditioning is broken. I have
silk screens fastened over the
windows in case of insects, or
smoke, smog, or dust getting
into the apartment.
My neighbors are
animals: The woman down the
hall who sleeps with everyone
in town, the gay couple next
door who spread diseases, the
psycho militant who feeds his
daughter nothing but fried
bacon and never cleans the
apartment.
It is…. necessary to take these
precautions. The body is a
temple and to allow the body
to be infected, soiled by air
borne plagues and bacteria, to
be poisoned by smoke and
smog and germs, it is
unseemly, ungodly. It is not my
way. I take precautions. I am a
model of health. I will live for
one hundred years. Unless
these filthy people contaminate
me first. But I won’t let that
happen. I take precautions.

Chapter Seven
Silas

Smoke, asbestos, the

stink of car exhaust blowing
out of ruptured pipes in the
walls, blowing steam into the
hallway. The world is coming
to an end and I would probably
kill a man for a strong drink
right now. Should have asked
old Wilbur for a shot of
whatever he had, if he had it.
Sun is starting to go down.
Noticed it through the window
of Wilbur’s apartment. I sure
would like to get out of here
before dark. I don’t remember
a lot of what brought me here
or where I’m supposed to go
now, but I’ve got this feeling
like it’s just not a good idea to
stick around here after dark.
I remember a man’s
face, unshaven, ragged. His
shirt was torn and he was
bleeding faintly from a shallow
laceration up his side. I
remember the sting of
violence, the blinding lights of
being kicked in the side of the
head.
I start to walk back
down the hallway towards
Cassie’s apartment, then I
notice something on the floor
ahead of me, a bundle of
tattered fabric and blurred,
jerky movements. As I get
about ten feet from it, I realize
it’s a child, a boy with black
hair and a not altogether
healthy complexion. He’s
crouched in the dust with his
back facing me and he appears
to be chewing on something
convulsively, as if in some
kind of frenzy. I circle around
him and I see that he’s
devouring a large rodent,
probably a rat. He has the thing
clutched in both hands and he’s
ripping mouthfuls out of its
stomach and choking it down
in thick, bloody mouthfuls. He
seems rabid and virile and I
don’t want to get too close to
him. When I get to where he
can see me, he looks up and
makes eye contact while
chewing on the rat with a
child’s look in his eyes that
almost fools me for a second,
even though I’m watching him
eat a rat which doesn’t seem to
be quite dead yet.
“What you got there,
little man?” I feign sincerity
and try to smile like a friend.
The boy hisses at me
with jagged teeth stained with
blood, bits of dingy brown fur
stuck within the narrow gaps
between his teeth. I take three
steps backwards then turn
around and start walking
towards Cassie’s apartment.
Behind me the child
begins to sob somewhat
heavily and when I turn around
again, he yells: “I ran out of
tea leaves!” Then he begins
feeding on the rat again.
I shudder, take a deep
breath and knock on Cassie’s
door. A moment passes, I
knock again. The door opens
and Cassie is standing there
with a towel wrapped around
her torso.
“I don’t know where
else to go.” I lean against the
doorframe and shrug
She looks at me for a
moment. “You can come inside
if you want.”
“Okay…thanks.”
I walk into her
apartment and she shuts the
door behind me. I stand in the
living room and stare out the
window while she goes into
the bedroom and closes the
door behind her. The world is
falling apart down there and all
I can do is watch. And wait.
Outside, there looks
to be a traffic jam of black and
whites and fire trucks and
ambulances. People in
uniforms and plain clothes
running around in circles.
Sirens going, lights flashing.
Dust and smoke fills the air.
Thin streams of water rise into
the air from holes in the
ground. The street is covered
in debris and rubble. A fire
fighter emerges from
somewhere inside the building
holding a large doll in a stained
blue dress with blood pouring
out of gashes in her head and
arms. The dolls skull seems to
have been split in half
horizontally from ear to ear,
shattered bones protrude out
from within the scalp in
jagged, bloody shards. I step
away from the window with
the realization that the doll is
not a doll, and I sit on the
couch about to light a cigarette
until I realize I only have three
left and I should probably
ration them, seeing as how I
may not be able to go to a store
for another pack for quite some
time.
Cassie steps out of the
bedroom wearing a long red
dress that appears to be made
out of silk or possibly
polyester. It’s shiny and seems
to flow a step behind her in the
light as she walks into the
living room. She stands beside
the television for a moment
before deciding to sit on the
floor.
I stand up. “You can
have the couch if you want.”
“It’s okay.” She says,
tucking strands of hair behind
her ear. “I like the floor.”
I hesitate. “Okay.” I
sit back down and offer her a
cigarette.
“No thanks.” She
says, examining the pack in
my hand. “You only have three
left.”
I put the pack in my
pocket without lighting one. I
glance out the window at the
dimly lit sky. “It’ll be dark
soon.”
“Mm hmm.” She
says, stretching her back out. I
think of clumsy yoga exercises
and I don’t remember if I know
anything about yoga, or not.
“I don’t suppose you
have…anything to drink.” I
ask, praying to God for the
right answer.
“What would you
like?” She asks, sighing,
leaning forward.
“Something…strong.”
“I might have some
wine left over.”
“Red?”
“White.” She says.
“Chardonnay.”
“You don’t seem like
a white wine kind of woman.”
“What kind of woman
do I seem like?” She says,
almost smirking.
I ponder a moment,
inhale, exhale. “Dangerous.”
She doesn’t say
anything for a moment. Then
she says, “How are you
feeling?”
“I’m all right. I might
have a concussion. Or internal
bleeding.”
“Or both.” She
smiles, standing up. She floats
into the kitchen with the shiny
dress trailing in slow motion
behind her.
A moment passes.
I look out the window and
smile for some reason.
Something about the colors in
the sunset make me remember
things that may or may not be
real that I probably wouldn’t
remember if the colors were
any different from the way
they are right now.
Cassie walks into the
living room and hands me a
green bottle of white wine.
“I don’t have clean glasses.”
She says. “But you don’t seem
like a person who would mind
drinking out of the bottle.”
I reach for the bottle
and she releases her grip on it.
I pull off the cork and sniff the
lip of the bottle. “If babies can
do it, so can I.” I grin and take
a long chug from the bottle.
She smiles, faintly. I
lower the bottle and take a
breath. I feel better already.
She stands between
the television stand and the
coffee table, pulling her hair
into a bun on the back of her
head. She’s not wearing a lot
of make up and I get the
feeling she doesn’t need a lot. I
realize she’s strikingly
beautiful in a very slim, urban
kind of way, whatever that
means. I take a deep breath,
take another chug from the
bottle, then I offer it to her. She
takes the bottle and takes a
couple swallows. I watch veins
and wires in her throat pulse
up and down as she drinks and
I imagine myself biting into
her jugular, the taste of blood
in my mouth like the few
seconds before getting a rabies
vaccination, or having a heart
attack.
“What are you
thinking about?” She asks,
handing me the bottle.
“Nothing.” I finish off
the wine, then I fish in my
pockets and pull out the pack
of cigarettes. I pull one out and
light it. I take a couple drags
and hand it to her. She takes it
and tucks it between her lips.
Our eyes meet. I turn away,
look at the blank television.
The stand the television is on
is painted green and blue, sort
of sloppy as if the paint was
just poured on and left to dry. I
imagine it was done on a lazy
summer afternoon, a Sunday,
perhaps. Maybe she gets bored
sometimes and paints her
furniture.
She hands me the
cigarette with her head turned
to the side, eyeing me through
her peripheral vision. I smile,
trying to remember how to
look sweet and kind to a
woman. I probably fail because
she turns away with a frown.
“You look like a serial
killer.” She walks into the
kitchen and fumbles with some
dishes or something in the
sink.
“What does a serial
killer look like?” I ask.
She steps between the kitchen
and the living room holding a
skillet in her hand.
“A little bit like you.”
She says, almost smiling.
“Are you doing
dishes?”
“Not really.” She
shrugs, stares at the skillet in
her hand.
“I can help.”
“It’s just this.” She
says, lifting the skillet in the
air. “It’s clean now.”
She goes into the
kitchen and opens a drawer
then closes it. She walks into
the bedroom and after a
moment she comes out with a
kitchen knife in her hands. She
stands in the doorway, holds
the knife up and studies it. The
knife is a solid strip of
stainless steel, the handle is
scrubbed to look dim, blurred
in the light.
“You look like you’re
dead.” She says, staring at the
knife. “Are you sure you feel
okay?”
 “I feel nothing.”
“Lovely.” She sets the
knife down on the coffee table.
“You look pale.”
“I always look pale. I
think.”
“Unhealthy pale.”
“Right.” I say.
“Are you hungry?”
She asks. “You look like you
should eat something.”
“I always look like
that.” I take a breath and I can
feel my ribs poking out
through my skin.
“You don’t ever eat?”
She stares at the kitchen knife
on the coffee table.
“Only when I have
to.” I shrug.
“You want to watch a
movie?” She asks.
I ponder this, looking
around the apartment for a
stack of movies but there’s
nothing but furniture and a pile
of dog-eared fashion
magazines stuffed in a corner,
stacked in a nice, neat pile.
“Not really.” I shrug
and try to remember how to
sound polite, if that’s even a
possibility.
“Okay.” She looks at
me in a way that makes me
feel something close to weary.
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I
haven’t thought about that. I
guess I’m just…waiting.”
“You might have a
long wait.”
 “I’ll live.” I shrug,
wondering how long until I
will want another cigarette.
“Maybe.” She grins.
“Who else lives on
this floor?”
“What do you mean?”
A moment passes.
“I don’t know how else to
phrase that.” I shrug.
“I don’t know the
other people who live here.”
She says. “We don’t…talk.”
“Okay. Anyone I
should watch out for?”
She sits quietly for a
moment glancing to her right,
towards the window. Cassie
has a rectangular beauty, very
straight lines and thin skin like
milk, sloped delicately over
thin, fragile bones. Images of
snowflakes, dim sunshine, fear.
“I don’t know. Maybe down
the hall. 303.” She shrugs.
“The guy that lives there seems
kind of…fucked up.”
“Okay. I’ll stay away
from 303.” I stand up,
pocketing my lighter. “Didn’t
you say we’re five stories up?”
“Yeah.”
“Why are the
apartment numbers in the three
hundreds if this is the third
floor?”
“The numbers don’t
make any sense. I think the
first floor is right above us.”
“Oh. What’s the first
floor called?”
“Fifth floor.” She
grins.
“Lovely.”
I make sure the
straight razor is still in my
pocket and I walk towards the
front door.
“Where are you
going?” She asks.
“I’m going
exploring.” I grin.
“There aren’t any fire
escapes.” She says.
I turn around with my
hand on the doorknob.
“What?”
“There aren’t any fire
escapes.” She says. “If you go
out a window you’re going to
fall five floors down. Probably
die, if you hit your neck just
the right way.”
I stare at her briefly.
“Okay.” I close the door
behind me.

Stepping through dust

and debris, piles of twisted
metal and broken glass. The
hallway is dark and wet and
stinks like musk, sewage, rust.
I knock on apartment 306 and
wait a moment then knock
again and a voice from behind
the door says, “Go away.”
I shrug, light a
cigarette, walk to the next
door.

Chapter Eight
Samuel
 The debris begins to
settle, the shit, the stink of
chemicals in the air. Kevin
grabs the sack and pours the
cocaine in lumps on the glass
coffee table.
“Enough to kill a
horse.” He says.
I cut a straw in little
sections with a pair of purple
safety scissors that Kevin stole
from the elementary school he
works at. I watch Kevin
separate a few fat lines from
the pile. I lean down and snort
one of the lines and I lean back
and pinch my nostrils, take a
breath.
Kevin grabs a little
straw from the table and snorts
a line. He rubs his nose and
lights one of his menthol
cigarettes and ashes it in a
Styrofoam cup at the end of
the table.
He sits on the floor
because he smells a little funky
and I don’t want him too close
to me right now. I lie back on
the couch, take a breath,
swallow.
Kevin is a bottom. I
only date bottoms. Boys see
my boots, my ironed and
starched shirts, they know I am
going to be on top and they
learn to love it. And I am good.
Maybe the best. Kevin knows
it and he loves me for it.
Sometimes he is too much like
my mother but he’s getting
better. I am teaching him,
slowly but surely, better than to
act like a helpless bitch
anytime that he’s not supposed
to.
There’s a knock on
the door. Kevin freezes. I sit
up, snort another line.
“Shit.” Kevin panics.
“Let’s do…something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” He whispers.
“Maybe it’s the cops.”
“What can we do about that?”
“Hide the shit.” He says.
“It’s all over the table. There’s
no hiding it.”
“We’re fucked.” He says.
“It’s not the cops.” I say, smile,
shrug, try to look confident,
but probably failing miserably.
“How do you know that?” He
asks. His voice is a whine and
I want to slap him across his
soft little face.
“That wasn’t a cop knock.” I
shrug.
There’s another knock on the
door.
“See?” I stand up and walk
over to the door. I peek
through the peephole. “It’s just
some guy. He looks…lost.”
“Don’t open it.”
Kevin whines.
“Shut up. I’m opening it.”
You’re so stupid.” He
says, tip toeing over to the
door, standing beside me. He
lights one of his nasty menthol
cigarettes and blows smoke at
the ceiling.
 “No. You are.” I sniff
hard, take a breath, open the
door just a crack.

Chapter Nine
Silas

I knock on the door to

apartment 305. Sounds of
voices, hushed and frantic
behind the door, sounds of
clutter being pushed around
and the squeak of sneakers
against hardwood floors. The
door opens just a crack. I see a
shadowed eyebrow above a
squinting eye. “What do you
want?”
“I don’t live here,
but…I’m stuck here for the
time being. See, the staircase,
it’s…destroyed.”
“Are you a cop?”
Paranoid panic of a coarse and
bitter voice.
“Um. No.” I frown,
shrug. I’ve been mistaken for
many different things in my
lifetime, but a cop had never
been one of them.
“What are you, a
salesman?” Another voice,
softer, from behind the door.
“No.” I shrug, feeling
uncomfortable. “I’m just a
normal person.”
“You don’t look
normal.” The rougher voice
says. The eye in the crack
between the door and the wall
squints to a sliver of light
reflecting through broken
windows from the world and
chaos going on outside.
“Well, okay.” I almost
smile. “Maybe I jumped the
gun on normal.”
“Fuck it.” Another
voice behind the door says.
“Let him in, I’m fucking bored
anyway.”
The first guy opens
the door to let me in and turns
to face the guy behind him.
“Oh, you’re bored? How the
fuck can you be bored?”
The second guy
giggles and I walk through the
door, lifting my eyebrows up
for some reason. The first guy
stops me before I step into the
living room. The air of the
apartment is a thick haze of
smoke and dust, the smell in
the air is sweet, like burning
mint leaves, incense.
“If you fuck with us we’ll kill
you, okay?” The man with the
bitter voice shrugs as he
speaks. “It’s cool that you’re
stuck here, you know, we’ll
chill with you, but if you try to
fuck our shit up, we’ll fuck
you up, okay?”
“Uh. Okay.” I nod,
frown, take a breath.
I follow them into the
living room and they separate
into different directions. I look
around the room. Large
television on a black wooden
stand with a VCR and DVD
combo unit, framed black and
white photographs on the
walls, along with black light
posters and stolen street signs
nailed into the walls. My eyes
find the glass coffee table with
an ashtray on top, along with a
small stack of textbooks, and
two or three short plastic
straws next to a razor blade
and an impossibly large pile of
a white powder that I assume
is cocaine.
“You’re kidding me.”
My voice is a little boy’s voice
on Christmas morning.
“What?” One of the
guys says, the man with the
bitter voice. They both sit on
the couch together.
“I was hoping for a
glass of bourbon.” I smile.
“But this just takes the fucking
cake.”
“Takes the cake.” The
softer man says, smiling. “You
are just adorable.”
The other guy turns to
him and frowns. The softer guy
shrugs.
“Okay.” The bitter
man says, letting out a sigh.
“You can have some if you
want. Okay?”
“Sounds good to me.”
I can’t help but to smile. “I
can, uh, pay you.”
“Whatever.” They
both shrug.
I feel hesitant to sit on
the couch with them so I sit on
the floor by the coffee table
across from them. I notice
there are four fat lines already
cut apart from the large pile on
the glass table. I glance at the
two guys.
“I’m Samuel.” One of
them says, the one with the
gruff voice. He motions to the
other guy who waves
exaggeratedly. “This is Kevin.”
He pats Kevin on the belly
with his face inches from his
neck.
“My name’s Silas.” I
smile, staring at the coke on
the table.
“Help yourself.”
Samuel says. “I lost track of…
whose turn it is anyway.”
“It was totally my
turn.” Kevin says. “You were
so trying to cheat me.”
“Oh, shut up.”
Samuel says. “I bought all this
shit anyway.”
“Don’t you pull that
shit.” Kevin says, blowing air
out through his nostrils. “I pay
the rent in this piece of shit
apartment.”
They stop talking and
watch me stick a short little
straw up to my nose and hover
over one of the lines on the
table. I snort deeply, inhaling it
in two trys. These guys don’t
fuck around with their lines.
I lean back, sniffing
hard. I take a deep breath,
glance around the room. I
imagine my eyes dilating
already.
“So what brings you
to the neighborhood?” Samuel
grabs a straw from the table
and leans over, inhales one of
the lines.
“That’s probably a
long story. I woke up in
someone’s…apartment, and I
don’t remember how I got
there.”
They both laugh
softly.
“I know how that is.” Kevin
grins.
Samuel hands the
straw to Kevin who
immediately goes to town on
the second to last line on the
table, next to the ridiculous
pile on the glass surface. I
already feel my hands
beginning to go numb. My
heart feels like a bass drum.
“How long have you
guys lived here?” I’m staring
at the coke on the table.
“Not long.” Samuel
says.
Kevin sniffs hard then
starts talking fast, a blur of
words that are hard to keep
track of.
“We moved in maybe five, six
months ago.” He says,
snorting, wiping his nose.
“Had to move out of the old
place because of too many
noise complaints. You know
how it is. If you’ve got a killer
system, you gotta blast it, you
know? So we moved in here,
but it’s only temporary until
we get another place, you
know. It’s a dump, and
especially now that a fucking
plane has crashed into it, you
know?”
He looks over at
Samuel who is staring at him.
There’s a moment of silence. I
stick the straw in my nose and
I hover over the last line,
already wondering how long it
will take for them to break
some more lines out of the
pile.
I wait for one of them
to say something, but there’s
only silence so I snort the line,
and lean back, sniff hard, pinch
one nostril. Everything
becomes so sharp, so clear. I
lean back, almost forgetting I
have nothing to lean back into.
I straighten up and sniff hard
and smile. I can’t stop smiling.
“So, you heard the
crash?” Samuel asks, his voice
somehow growing softer,
taking the straw from me.
“Not really.” I say,
rubbing my nose. “I slept
through it.”
“You must be a heavy
sleeper.” Kevin says, watching
Samuel break up three large
rails on the coffee table.
“I guess so.” I shrug,
still smiling.
I think of Cassie and
wonder if she would be
interested in coming over but
the idea quickly vanishes when
Samuel points at a rail in front
of me, out of turn. I snort the
rail while Kevin protests that
it’s his turn.
“It’s actually my
turn.” Samuel says, staring at
me. “But I’m being a generous
host, okay?”
“Oh, sure.” Kevin
grins, rubbing Samuel’s
shoulder. “A very charming
hostess.”
Samuel grabs Kevin’s
hand softly. “Hush, baby.
We’ve got company.”
“I’m not ashamed.”
Kevin grins, kissing Samuel on
the side of his neck. They both
giggle lightly together.
I lean back, gasping. I
snort, taking deep breaths,
feeling almost…virile. “This
is…some really good shit,
guys.”
“Of course it is.”
Samuel says. “It cost me a
fucking fortune.”
Kevin giggles and
grabs the straw from me.
“It’s my turn.”
Samuel protests.
“I thought we didn’t
believe in taking turns
anymore.” Kevin grins, snorts
a rail with vacuum cleaner
efficiency.
“You’re such a girl.”
Samuel grabs the straw from
him.
Kevin jokingly gasps
and pinches one nostril,
sniffing, snorting, and leans
back into the couch cushions.
Samuel snorts a rail,
then hands the straw back to
me. This is all happening
abnormally quickly. It’s a blur.
I’ve just barely sat down in
these strangers apartment and
already I’ve had three fat lines
and am about to snort another
and all I can think about is
what Cassie looks like under
the bath water, holding her
breath, her thick strawberry
blonde hair floating around her
in the soapy bath water like
smoke, like a bird feather halo.
I snort the rail and
everything goes white, like
flood lights bathing the
apartment. My face begins to
throb and I can feel every
bruise and cut in my face. Only
now do I begin to feel self
conscious about my ruined
looks. I still don’t remember
what happened to me, but I
have a feeling it has something
very directly to do with
someone in this apartment
building. I size up the two
fruits here, though, and they
pose absolutely no threat to
me. So it must be some one
else. And probably not Wilbur
and his depressed wife in 307.
They seem harmless enough,
in a normal domestic abuse
sort of way.
I take a deep breath
and exhale and my breath is
frantic, unsteady. I look at
Kevin and Samuel and they
don’t seem to notice, both
focused on the coke on the
table. I notice there isn’t any
music playing, and when I
think about it I’m sort of
thankful because all I can
imagine them playing is the
stereotype of synth-pop that
gays always play in movies or
television shows on HBO
where it’s supposed to be
obvious that they’re gay and
they wear tight black spandex
shirts and feed each other
ecstasy pills with the tips of
their tongues.
I start to fish in my
pockets for a cigarette, then
remember that I’m almost out.
“Either of you have a cigarette
I can bum?”
Kevin sticks a hand in
his pocket while Samuel stares
at the coke on the table, pulls
out a pack of camel menthols
and holds the pack towards
me. I hesitate for a second,
then pull one out of the pack.
He lights it for me and I nod,
inhale deeply. I fucking hate
menthols, but a free cigarette is
a free cigarette, and if neither
of them had one I would have
had to pull my own pack out
and that would have been
awkward after pretending I
didn’t have any.
I look at them both,
and they’re not saying
anything, and I nod to myself
as if agreeing to some
statement, and I take another
drag, and I don’t remember the
last time I felt this cheerful.
 Samuel takes a straw
from the table and positions
himself over one of the rails.
He snorts intensely and the rail
disappears. I grab a couple
bills from my front pockets,
unsure of how much is there,
and toss them on the table.
Neither of the guys pay any
attention. Samuel hands a
straw to Kevin who
immediately snorts the last rail,
and leans back on the couch.
They both snort, and sniff, and
rub their nostrils.
The glass table
reflects black in the candle lit
darkness, the crumbs and
lumps of coke, like powered
stars, glimmer and shine.
I take a deep breath.
My heart beats like a drum
roll. I almost feel my eyes puff
up to the size of dolls eyes.
I smoke the menthol.
The room disappears. I’m
handed a straw, and I snort
another rail, and pass the straw
along, and I’m losing feeling
in my face, and my hands.
I hear voices in the
room and I’m watching in
vivid, clear detail Kevin and
Samuel whispering covertly to
each other, glancing off and on
in my direction, but the voices
are miles away and are
delayed, seconds behind the
movement of their lips.
“You think he’s the
guy Fish was looking for?”
“Shit. No doubt about
it.”
“What?”
“No doubt about it.”
“Who talks like that?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve never said
‘no doubt about it’ before.”
“I do sometimes.”
“It sounds silly. You
shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Why not?”
“It’s kind of…
feminine.”
“How is it feminine?”
“It just is.”
“Well. Okay.
Whatever.”
“So what do you want
to do?”
“Get him out of here.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now. If Fish is
after this guy, we don’t want
anything to do with it.”
“Lord, this is just like
a movie or something.”
“A stupid movie.”
“Okay.”
They both look at me
and I lean back, take a deep
breath.
“I should be going now.” I hear
my voice, a mile away beneath
the surface of a bathtub full of
rainwater.
“Thanks for stopping
by.” One of them says,
standing up. The other stands
with him, looking nervous, but
smiling…awkwardly.
I stand up and start to
walk towards the door. They
follow me.
“Who is Fish?” I
fumble with the doorknob.
“I hope you find your
way.” One of them says. “The
sign that says exit in the dust
and debris.”
I flinch at the possible
connotations of this statement
and then the door shuts behind
me. They maneuver a series of
complicated sounding locks. I
look around the hallway. It
seems to be getting filthier
with dust. The walls and floor
seem to be decomposing like
old fruit left in the sun in a
puddle of moss and rainwater.
I take a breath with my eyes
open wide. I feel static but my
thoughts are clear, my vision is
sharp. I look down one end of
the hallway, then the other. I
walk through dust and shards
of twisted metal, broken glass,
towards 308. I light a cigarette
and knock on the door.
A moment passes. I
knock again. I curl my toes in
the socks in dust and powder,
wondering where the hell my
boots are. It appears Cassie has
tired of my company for the
time being. I’m definitely
stuck here and there’s nowhere
for me to go so I start to walk
down the other side of the
hallway. I don’t get very far.

Chapter Ten
Elliot
 I hear the faggots next
door laughing and snorting and
there’s a third voice I don’t
recognize, but after a moment
or two I am able to identify the
voice as belonging to the
stranger who appears to be
stuck here, for the time being,
who knocked on my door
moments ago. I hear them
speak gibberish to each other,
like always. These walls of
paper are driving me insane in
a very, very bad way. I’d like
to reconstruct the barrier walls
with a form of concrete that
can let the air circulate around
in the apartment, but keeps the
noise out. The only problem
with that is that I’m really not
entirely sure that such a form
of concrete has been invented
yet.
The voices linger in
my air like toxins of dust,
germs spread through the open
spaces that infect us through
the ear dreams and then head
straight for our brains. I try to
ignore the voices, to
concentrate my thoughts on
something else but it doesn’t
work, it never works. I
sometimes wish that I would
just go deaf. Then I wouldn’t
have to hear the voices all the
time, everywhere. They keep
me awake at night, and they
never tell me anything I need
to know, but they don’t ever
stop, they never, never stop.
 I never leave. My
cave. I hear them. Non-stop.
Talking, talking, talking,
talking, talking. It never stops.
While one apartment is asleep,
the other is awake and
screaming at the TV. I hear
everything. I know who is
fucking whom, who is sick and
who is dying from diseases. I
know how much money they
make, and I know whose name
they call out when they’re
asleep.
I run my fingers along
the grooves and curves of the
walls. I have no decorations. I
live in blank white walls, but
even the absence of color is
fading from me.
Planes fall from the
sky, buildings implode on them
selves and no one is keeping
very good count anymore,
especially not today.
I take my pills, not the
ones prescribed, the different
ones, the ones I’ve made
myself. But I’m running out
and my equipment has been
destroyed by the tremors and
shaking walls when the plane
fell and destroyed the side of
the building. I can only
imagine the chaos, confusion
happening outside.
Ambulances, fire trucks, police
vehicles. I have to breathe
through a facemask to protect
from the dust. I wear aviator
goggles to protect my eyes
from chemical agents, gasses
in the air.
The apartments are
connected and breathe into
each other so I have to be
careful because you never
know what they will spray into
the air next. Even with the
facemask I can smell the
poisons they release into the
oxygen. What I need is a
reliable gas mask.
My concentration
breaks when I hear a whisper
through the wall. The faggots
are whispering Fish’s name as
if to keep the stranger from
hearing it. I hear movement
through the wall and hushed
voices, conversation. The door
opens: they are kicking him
out of the apartment. If he has
anything to do with the
commotion earlier, before the
plane hit the building and the
sun began to set, he may be
useful to me.
I begin to unlock my
door with the air filter pressed
over my mouth and nose with
my right hand. It takes several
moments to undo every lock
and when I open the door, just
a crack, the stranger is just
passing me and I have to act
fast.
“You.” I say, pulling
the door open a half inch
wider. The stranger stops and
looks at me. His face is bruised
and swollen. Scabs and cuts
not yet healed that will
probably scar noticeably are
marked asymmetrically around
his face. His eyes are swollen
but opened wide as if in shock.
“Yeah?” He says,
standing still, looking at me
with one eyebrow raised. I
flinch at being seen by him,
being studied. But I need
information.
“Come inside. We
need to talk.”
“You know a way out
of here?” He asks, stepping
slowly towards me.
“The stairs are over
there.” I motion down the hall
with a tilt of my head.
“Oh.” He says,
glancing casually at the dust
covered floor. “The stairs are
destroyed.”
“Happens all the
time.” I pull the door open
wide, holding my breath even
with the filter on my face.
“Come inside.”
He hesitates a
moment then shrugs and steps
through the doorway, slowly
passed me, and into my home.

Chapter Eleven
Silas

I frown at the sight of

his apartment through the
space between him and the
door frame, but I have no
where else to go at the moment
so I step inside and I have to
breathe in through my mouth
to keep from gagging. The
place stinks like cobwebs, and
stale urine, and defecation,
masked by a stink of
chemicals: bleach, cleaning
products, rubbing alcohol.
“What do you know
about apartment 303?” He
shuts and locks the door
behind him.
There are an unusual
amount of complicated,
paranoid locks in this
apartment building. It seems
the only person who doesn’t
dead bolt the door a hundred
times is Cassie, which seems a
little ridiculous.
“I don’t know
anything.” I shrug. “I don’t
even live here.”
He wears denim
overalls and a plain white tee
shirt and black combat boots,
not mine, but they look like
mine. His arms and hands are
wrapped with clear plastic
secured onto his limbs with
black electrical tape.
“But you know who
lives there.” He says, seeming
unusually worked up about
something.
I glance around the room for a
place to sit, but whatever
furniture there may be in here
is covered, buried in old news
papers, some of them probably
dating a decade or two old,
along with tattered, water
damaged books and various
items, pages torn from spiral
notebooks, scribbled over in
random, frantic hand writing.
The guy is definitely a severe,
chronic pack rat and probably
a clinical germa-phobe as well.
“I don’t know who
lives there.” I shrug.
“You don’t know
Fish?”
I pause a moment,
looking at him. He flinches
when our eyes meet and looks
away quickly.
“Fish.” I say, not sure why.
“Who is fish? That name
sounds so familiar.”
Images of tattered
features, a voice like gravel,
fast blurred movements, and
blood dried between fingers in
a clinched, pale fist.
“You don’t know
him?” The guy asks, staring at
the floor.
“They were talking
about him next door. Who is
he?”
“I don’t have any
information.” He says, looking
down at the cluttered floor,
solemnly.
“Um. Okay.”
“You don’t know
anything about a little girl,
then?”
Images of short jet
black hair cut into bangs, baby
blue eyes, soft bulbous white
cheeks, red and pink summer
dresses big enough to fit a
hippo, picking blue bonnets in
fields near an interstate
highway.
I take a breath,
frowning. “I don’t…
remember.”
He doesn’t say
anything for a moment.
“So.” I look at the
floor, shuffle my barefoot. “I
like your boots.”
He looks down at his
feet. He doesn’t say anything.
“You get those new?”
He looks at me
blankly. “Where are your
shoes?”
“I lost them.”
“You should be more
careful.” He begins to unlock
the intricate series of dead
bolts and chains on his door.
“Walking around here with no
shoes on, you’re bound to get
infections.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Or dead.”
“What?”
“You’ll be dead.”
I begin to leave and I
feel lightheaded, my vision
goes blurry…momentarily.
“You’d better be
careful out there.” The guy
says. “The hallway. It’s no
place to lose your grips.”
Before I can respond
he shuts the door behind me,
locking it for what seems like
several minutes.
In the hallway again,
starting to familiarize myself
with the dust and broken glass
blanketing the floor, pipes and
wires, dim yellow lights
flickering on and off…
spastically.
I walk towards the
destroyed staircase to study
what I cannot get out through.
The walls are crumbled all
around the opening, dry wall
and plaster and steel cover the
exit like industrial boulders.
We’re definitely trapped here,
but I make a mental note to
check out the windows for
possible escape methods the
next time I’m in someone’s
apartment.
Okay. So. I remember
someone possibly beating the
crap out of me, possibly named
Fish Douglas, and he may or
may not have something to do
with a little girl with short
black hair. I remember a girl
named Molly. Then it hits me
and I feel so stupid. Molly. Son
of a bitch.
I knock on 306. “Hey,
let me in. I just…remembered
something.”
He lets me into the
apartment and shuts the door
after checking the hall to see if
anyone is there. He crosses the
cluttered living room and
closes the curtains for some
reason. The sun has already
fallen and the only light is
coming from what appears to
be a battery powered lantern
on the coffee table surrounded
by boxes full of papers and
trinkets and stacks of books.
 “You said something
about a little girl?” I ask,
glancing around for a place to
sit, then remember that there is
no where to sit so I get
comfortable with the idea of
standing and I look at his face,
only half consciously
wondering why he wears an air
filter.
“Keep your voice
down.” He whispers, stands a
couple feet from me and holds
the air filter firmly on his face
with both hands.
“Okay.” I whisper.
“What do you know?”
“Tell me about the
little girl.”
“I don’t know
anything, really. But I heard
some things.”
“Like what?”
“Tell me what you
know first.”
I take a deep breath. I
already assume I can’t smoke
in here and it makes me
irritable, though I don’t bother
to ask if it’s okay. Anyone who
wears an air filter, presumably
at all times, is bound to frown
upon smoking anywhere near
him.
“I have a daughter…I
think. Her name is Molly. She
has short black hair. She’s…
enormous.”
“She’s overweight?”
“Obese.” I nod. “The
size of a…desk. Pasty face…
greasy, lots of pimples.”
 “Is she missing?”
“I think so.”
“You don’t know for
sure?”
“I have trouble…
remembering.”
“Sounds about right.”
He says. “You look like your
head’s been run over by a bus.”
I stand quietly for a
moment, staring.
He continues: “I have reason to
believe he has a little girl in his
apartment with him. She may
have short black hair. She may
be obese. I’m not sure.”
“What reasons do you
have to believe that?”
“My reasons are my
own.” He says. “I…hear
things. Voices.”
“In your head?”
He points to the wall
beside us. “Through the wall,
idiot.”
“You heard a little girl
through the wall.”
“Definitely not a
man’s voice. I know that
much.”
“It could be a
woman.”
“No. It’s not a
woman. I heard a little girls
voice…screaming. I heard him
say things to her and there was
a lot of…heavy breathing.”
My stomach clinches
up. “I don’t like this.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t like where
this is going.”
 “I didn’t say you
would like it.”
“I don’t even know
for sure I have a daughter. I
just remember it…sort of.”
“Are you married?”
He asks.
I look down at my
bare fingers on my left hand. “I
don’t think so.”
He pauses a moment.
“Your head is fucked up.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know if you
are a reliable source for
information.”
“Okay. So. What does
that mean?”
“It doesn’t mean
anything. I just don’t trust
you.”
“Okay.”
“So there’s that.”
“All right.” I nod
blankly. “So. What is your
involvement in this?”
“What do you mean?”
He squints his eyes. His voice
sounds muffled inside the air
filter and he sounds a little bit
like a feminine Darth Vader.
“You seem very
concerned about this.”
“Yes?” He shrugs.
“Why do you care?”
“You don’t think I
would care if someone I live
next door to has kidnapped a
little girl and is holding her in
his apartment?”
“Well, maybe. But is
there anything else?”
 He stares for a
moment, possibly pondering.
This candlelight shit is really
starting to creep me out.
“I don’t like him.” He
says, grinding his teeth. “He
never sleeps. He plays these
military training videos at all
hours of the day and night. His
apartment always smells like
bacon, and cleaning products.
The cleaning products, I don’t
mind so much, but bacon just
really pisses me off. Filthy
animals, pigs. I hate them.”
“I like bacon.” I
shrug.
“I don’t care.”
“What else?”
“He fires guns in his
apartment, sometimes. I’ve
called the police on him a
couple of times, but it doesn’t
seem to have any effect. I don’t
know what he’s shooting at,
but it worries me. I have to
sleep at least fifteen hours a
day or else I completely lose it.
And living on the same floor
as him, I’m not getting any
sleep. I mean, look at me. I’m
a nervous wreck.”
I glance around his
apartment, then study the
wrinkles and grooves in his
face, the crazed, strung out
look in his eyes, blood shot. I
take a deep breath. I’m pretty
sure I could gut this guy right
now for a cigarette.
“Can I smoke in
here?”
 “No.”
“So what does this
have to do with the girl?” I
ask.
“See. This is the
brilliant part, okay? Now, don’t
tell anyone, this is kind of my
secret little plan. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay, see, if he’s got
a kidnapped girl in his
apartment, and the cops are
called on him, and they bust
him, and they throw him in
prison, then I don’t have to live
next door to him anymore, get
it? He’ll be gone and I’ll
finally be able to rest.”
He shuts his eyes
tightly waving his hand in the
air. He stomps lightly on the
floor once, causing dust to rise
up from the floorboards. I
cough and he just looks at me
with the corners of his eyes
wrinkled up to show that he’s
smiling.
“So.” I say, nodding.
“You want him to go to jail for
kidnapping so you don’t have
to live next door to him
anymore.”
“Right.” He says,
nodding, excited. “Exactly.”
“You’re insane.”
“No, no, no.” He says,
shaking his head. “No, no, no,
no, no, no. I’m the only sane
one in this entire building.”
I frown, swallow, take
a breath. “Okay.”
“You think I’m
insane, but it doesn’t matter.
You’ll see. He’ll be gone and
I’ll be able to sleep again and I
can go back to work and
everything will be okay.”
I clear my throat.
“Where do you work?”
“Law office.” He
says, nodding his head for
some reason. “Jackson,
Mitchell, and Hanford. I’m a
legal consultant.”
Uh huh.” I nod. “And
how long has it been since
you’ve been to work?”
“Six months.”
I pause. “You still
have a job there?”
“Of course. I’m
important. They’ll keep a place
for me.”
“Have you notified
them of your situation?”
“No.” He shakes his
head. “I took a sick leave.” He
nods his head.
“A six month sick
leave?”
“No. A week. But
they’ll understand.”
I open my mouth to
say something, but can’t think
of anything to say, so I take a
breath, exhale. He presses the
air filter against his face and
this entire thing is just totally
freaking me out and I’m not
entirely opposed to pulling the
straight razor out and cutting
his throat and bleeding him dry
on the dusty hard wood floor
just for the sake of it.
There’s really no doubt who is
the crazy one in this room, but
I don’t remember why that’s so
obvious to me.
“So you’re going to
figure it out, right?” He asks,
his eyes going wide.
“What?”
“You’re going to go
over there and figure our
what’s going on, right?”
“Over to Fish’s
apartment?”
“Yeah, that’s what
you’re going to do, right?”
“What’s wrong with
you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t want to go
over there. The guy sounds like
a fucking crazy person.”
“You look crazy.
Crazy as he is.”
“Fair enough.”
“And you said it
might be your daughter.” He
says.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“Well.” I pause,
pondering. “Maybe. I did kind
of imply it.”
“Right. So. Go over
there.” The guy shifts his
weight from side to side. “Go
kick his ass.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Why?”
“Look at me.” I say,
pointing with both hands to the
mess that is my face. “We can
both pretty much assume that it
was Fish …whatever his name
is…”
“Fish Douglas.” He
says.
“That it was Fish
Douglas who did this to me.
Therefore.” I point one finger
in the air. “However tough I
may be, it is fairly self evident
that he can take me, somewhat
easily.”
“Is that how you lost
your finger?” He stares at my
right hand. “Fish cut it off, or
something?”
I look at my hand, at
the aged scar tissue where the
finger used to be.
“No.” I shrug. “I think
this is…old.”
“Well, anyway.” He
sighs through the facemask,
shrugs. “I didn’t say you were
tough. I said you were crazy.”
“Okay, so we’re both
crazy. But I’m not very stupid.
I think. We might need…a
plan.”
“What kind of plan?”
I pause, breathing. I
look at him, swallow. “Never
mind. This is stupid.”
“Why?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“So?”
“I don’t like this. This
doesn’t feel right.”
“Okay.”
“What do you mean
‘okay’?”
“I mean, okay.” He
says. “If you don’t want to do
it, don’t do it.”
“What did you have
in mind?” I ask.
“Go into his
apartment and see if there is a
girl in there, tied up or
something, and if there is, you
come back here, and I’ll call
the police, and they’ll come
and arrest him, and that’ll be
the end of it.”
“What if he kills the
girl?”
“He won’t kill the
girl.”
“How do you know?”
“Because the cops
will come before that.”
“How do you know
the cops will come before
that?”
“I just know.” He
shrugs. “That’s how it’s done.”
“Okay.” I stare at the
floor. “I’m leaving.”
“Don’t leave. We
have to do this.”
“No. You’re an idiot.
I’m leaving.”
I start to walk to the
door, weary of the ridiculous
series of locks I’m going to
have to deal with to get out of
here. The guy tries to block me
from getting to the door. I
know I could easily take him,
but there’s really no need. I
reach into my pocket for my
pack of cigarettes. I stick one
between my lips and I light it.
“Okay! Okay!” The
guy hisses, turning around to
fiddle with the locks and
chains. “Just think about it,
okay?”
He opens the door and
pushes me out into the hallway.
He starts to say something else
but I interrupt him.
“I’ll take care of it, all
right? Just shut up, right now.”
He shuts up and
closes the door behind me. I
hear the locks and chains.
I glance down the
hallway towards apartment
303. I take a breath. I look
down the other side of the
hallway towards 308, Cassie’s
apartment. I head towards 308,
and I take a drag from the
cigarette, breathing smoke.

Chapter Twelve
Donna

Mrs. Clover wheels

out of the bedroom like a
down-syndrome kid operating
a bumper car. A wooden stand
topples over, an expensive
looking vase thuds on the
carpeted floor.
“Donna, dear.” She
says, not looking at me. “Go
and see what the commotion is
all about, will you?”
I look up from my
book. I’m sitting on her
blistered leather couch,
wishing I could smoke in here.
“What commotion?”
“The commotion out
in the hallway, Dear. Lots of
men running around.”
I look at her with
what I assume is a blank
expression on my face. “A
plane crashed into the building,
Mrs. Clover. People are bound
to be running around.”
“Well, it’s distracting
me.” She says, slapping her
palms on her lap, getting fussy.
“I’m just not sure it’s
safe to go out into the hallway
right now.”
“Heavens to Betsy.”
She tries to spin around to
wheel herself into the
bedroom. I stand up and walk
over to her. I grab the handles
on the chair and slowly spin
her around. She jerks away
from me when I’ve aimed her
into the doorway and speeds
into the bedroom, knocking
over something that shatters on
the floor. I’m going to have to
clean that up later.
I sit back on the
couch and grab my book from
the floor and I’m wondering in
what century was it
unreasonable for men to walk
through a hallway and have
conversations.
Mrs. Clover shouts
from the bedroom: “How long
are we going to be trapped in
here like mice?”
I want to tell her she
never leaves the apartment
anyway but instead I ignore
her and I continue to read my
book.
Then the windows in
the living room shatter and I’m
thrown off the couch in what
feels like an earthquake. From
the floor, with glass and
whatever else flying at my
face, I see something large and
white blur passed the window
falling straight down. The blur
of the object falling past the
window is followed by
screaming, sounds of
machines.
Mrs. Clover starts
screaming from the bedroom.
“Apocalypse!”
“Calm down, Mrs.
Clover.” I shout, trying to
sound calm but completely
failing. “It’s just…. something
falling.”
Mrs. Clover Yells.
“Just something falling, she
says!”
I notice she doesn’t wheel her
fat ass in here to see if I’m all
right.
Sounds of explosions
off in the distance, sirens all
over the place: maybe it really
is the apocalypse. But there’s
no way in Hell Mrs. Clover
could be right, so I shake the
notion off and I walk into the
bedroom to try to calm her
down. There is another flash,
blur of objects in the air and
the windows in Mrs. Clover’s
room shatter.
She sits with her back
turned to me beside the bed
and she’s crouched over as if
asleep. I spin her around
slowly.
“You might want to get away
from these windows.” I say. “It
doesn’t seem very safe here.”
The windows are
already shattered, but it would
look really bad to the agency if
Mrs. Clover died in an
accident while I was supposed
to be looking after her, despite
these abnormal circumstances.
Mrs. Clover doesn’t
say anything and when I spin
her around her eyes are open
wide, the pupils shrunken and
off center and there is a long
shard of metal with bits of
splintered glass stuck to it
wedged deep into her forehead,
a few inches from the end of
her left eyebrow, which are
plucked for some reason which
make her look like she has
cancer because her eye brows
aren’t very thick to begin with.
Blood is draining out from the
hole in her head and trailing
down her and collecting in
thick puddles around her eyes
and dripping down her chin
and staining her white cotton
blouse and my job at the
agency is totally fucked.
I basically run out of
the bedroom and out the door
and into the hallway and I trip
over what appears to be a pile
of dust and metal and
splintered wood on the floor
and I slam my head on
something really hard and after
that everything just pretty
much goes blank.

Chapter Thirteen
Silas

Cassie’s door is
cracked open and this can
mean anything or nothing at all
but I pull out the straight razor,
unfold it, and hold it at my hip.
I push the door open slowly.
Candles flicker in a breeze
through broken windows, the
room has a bitter chill in the air
and I know immediately that
there’s no one in here. I grab a
candle from a stand in the
living room and walk into the
bedroom with the candle and
the straight razor held out in
front of me. The bedroom is
empty. The bed is made, which
for some reason relaxes me.
The bathroom is clean besides
two oval shaped drops of blood
on the toilet, which may or
may not be anything unusual.
Women bleed for a week out of
every month, so I’m not too
concerned about it.
I walk back through
the living room, into the
kitchen, open the refrigerator,
pull out a jar of olives. I set the
candle on the counter and pop
open the jar of olives and start
stuffing them into my mouth,
chewing vigorously. I don’t
remember the last time I had
something to eat. And though
the cocaine stifled my appetite
a good bit, it’s not a dietary
supplement and I need real
food. Although, olives in a jar
don’t exactly qualify, but
they’re good enough.

Chapter Fourteen
Donna

I wake up in layers of dust,

shards of glass. My head feels
like a hammer has beaten it to
pulp. I try to lean forward but I
can’t. Something is keeping
me from moving. I feel blood
dripping down the side of my
face.
“You should be more
careful, girl. Running around
in the dark like that.”
I open my eyes.
Candles are lit all around me,
but I can’t see anything. I hear
the voice but the face is
unrecognizable, shadowed,
hidden away somehow from
the flickering lights.
“Where am I?”
“You’re safe, girl.”
The voice says.
“I need to get help.”
“We all need help.”
“Mrs. Clover is
dead.” I squint tears out of my
eyes though I don’t feel
particularly sad about
anything.
“She’s better off that
way.” The voice says.
 I don’t say anything
for along time after that. A
dried leather hand wipes tears
from my eyes for a while.
“Daddy?” A little girls
voice from somewhere in the
apartment. “Who’s that lady?”
I turn my head in the
direction of her voice but I
only see her silhouette in the
corner, shadowed, a hulking,
bulbous form, a figure too
enormous, and clumsy to be
capable of such a sweet,
delicate little girl’s voice. She
seems to be holding a large
stuffed animal, possibly a
teddy bear.
“Don’t worry about it,
Darlin.” The voice says,
brushing strands of hair out of
my face. “She’s one of our
neighbors. Bumped her head
pretty good in the hallway.”
I swallow, try to
breathe but it’s difficult. “I’m
not…a neighbor.”
“Who are you then?”
He asks, holding a candle close
to my face.
“I…I take care of
Mrs. Clover. I’m from the
agency.”
“Mrs. Clover is
dead.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t take very
good care of her then.”
“The windows…
shattered.” I say.
“Yes, there’s been a
lot of that going around. How
do you feel?”
“Like…shit.”
Sounds of breathing
in the corner.
“Not around the girl.”
“What?”
“The language.” He
says. “Not around the girl.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“That’s all right. You
can sit up now if you like.”
“I…can’t.”
“I’ll help you.”
He places a hand
beneath me and pulls me up. It
takes unusual effort to sit up
but he helps me and I lean
forward with a sigh. I put my
fingers on the sore spot of my
forehead and it feels raw.
There’s a bump where my head
must have hit the floor,
knocked me out for a little
while.
“You’ll be okay.” The
guy says.
“Daddy, when will the
power be turned back on?” The
little girl asks, stepping closer
to us.
“I don’t know, darlin.
Soon, I think.”
“Is that man going to
come back?”
“Hush, darlin. Don’t
you worry none.”
A moment passes. I
take shallow breaths.
“Can I have some
more bacon?” The girl asks.
“In a little while,
darlin. We’ll all have some
bacon when this is over.”

Chapter Fifteen
Cassie

“So you’re sure you

don’t have any flour?”
“I told you, girl, we’re
out of flour. Why don’t you go
the damn store?”
“Funny.”
“Right, right. The
stairs.”
“You forgot, huh?”
“Don’t think because
I forget things that I’m simple.
I’m a complex men.”
“I’m sure you are.”
“Martha, come in here
woman. How long does it take
you to get dressed?”
“Coming, dear.”
“Our neighbor here
says I’m simple.”
“You’re complex.
Very complex.”
“You’re damn right.
What’s that you’re holding
there?”
“A shoe box.”
“Right. But what’s in
it?”
“Shoes.”
“All right. Well, if
you don’t have any flour I’ll
just be on my way then.”
“What do you need
flour for anyway?”
“I wanted to bake a
pie.”
“A pie?”
 “That’s right. I
wanted to bake a pie for Silas.”
“Who’s Silas?”
“He’s stuck here. He
looks hungry.”
“Oh, him. The one
that Fish took a beating to, left
him in the hallway to die. You
shouldn’t have meddled in
that, girl. What’d you do, nurse
him back to health?”
“Something like that.”
“Well, Fish will be
not too happy.”
“I couldn’t care less
about Fish Douglas or anyone
else in this fucked up
building.”
“Such language!”
“Oh, hush it, Martha,
the air around you turns blue in
the bedroom.”
“Oh Wilbur, go again
and make our private matters
public.”
“What public? We’re
in our own home, here. She’s
not company, she’s our
neighbor.”
“Well, it was nice
chatting. I’ll be going now.”
“You stay away from
303, girl. This isn’t going to
end very pretty.”
“What do you know
about it?”
“I know things. Isn’t
that right Martha?”
“What?”
“That I know things.”
“You’re very
complex.”
 “Right. And I know
things. I listen. You don’t think
I listen, but I do. I know what
goes on around here.”
“I try to stay in the
dark, personally. I don’t want
to know what kind of fucked
up things go on around here.”
“This is the worst
place on earth.”
“Oh shut it, Martha.
You weren’t complaining when
I fixed the reception on the
TV.”
“How is it you still
have electricity?”
“No running water,
girl. It’s a fair trade.”
“Okay. I guess so. I’m
leaving now.”
“Good luck.”
“With what?”
“Baking pies.”
“I can’t bake pies
without flour.”
“That’s why you need
good luck.”
“Okay…thanks.”
“No problem.”

Chapter Sixteen
Silas

I finish off the jar of

olives, and I hear footsteps in
the hall. I unfold the straight
razor and tuck myself between
the open door and the wall. A
shadowed figure steps into the
doorway and stops. My
instincts kick in and I rush
towards the figure. My left
hand grabs the long hair,
pulling the head back while the
right hand presses the straight
razor against the throat. “Who
are you?”
“It’s me.” A woman’s
voice. “It’s Cassie. Back off.”
I drop my hands and
take three steps away from her.
“Sorry.”
She looks around.
“You blew my candles out?”
“Wind did it.”
“Why are you hiding
in the shadows?”
“Comes naturally to
me.”
She closes the door
and begins lighting candles.
Flashing lights, blue and red,
illuminate the apartment from
outside. She looks beautiful in
the flashing lights, though I’m
not sure why.
“I was going to bake
you a pie.”
“A pie?”
“Yes. Why does
everyone repeat that?”
“Why a pie?”
“I thought it would be
nice.”
“That would have
been nice. Why didn’t you
bake a pie?”
“I don’t have any
flour.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.”
“And then you tried to
cut my throat.”
“Yeah. Sorry about
that.”
“It’s okay.”
“I ate some of your
olives.”
“What olives?”
“The olives in the
fridge. The green ones.”
“Those are old.
They’ve gone bad. You’re
going to get sick.”
“I’m already sick.”
“No, you’re insane.”
She says, lighting the last
candle. “And beaten half to
death. There’s a difference.”
“Depends on how you
look at it.”
“Okay.”
“What time is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t have a
watch?”
She shrugs in
candlelight. “I never really
want to know the time.”
“That’s not normal.”
“Define normal.”
“I can’t.”
“Come here.” She
says, moving her body gently
in the half darkness.
“Why?”
“You look beautiful in
the shadows.”
“So I’ll stay in the
shadows.”
“Come here. Don’t
you want to dance?”
“I haven’t had an
erection in three weeks.”
Moment of silence.
“Did you have to say that?”
She asks.
“I guess not…No.” I
shrug. “I don’t hear any
music.”
“There isn’t any.”
“But there’s always
music…somewhere.” I say.
“Exactly.” She says.
She walks over to me
and puts her hands on my
shoulders. My hands glide to
her hips. She feels thin. I can
feel the hips beneath her
sweater sway and move
beneath the skin. We dance in
the shadows of her candle lit
living room. I can almost hear
the music playing in the
background.

Chapter Seventeen
Kevin

My hands, they stink

of semen and shit. Samuel rolls
me over and rubs hard against
the opening but doesn’t
penetrate. He hesitates, falls
away from me. I cover myself
with the covers.
“Why are you
bleeding so much?”
“It…hurts.”
“It’s not supposed to
bleed like that.”
“I don’t know. I bleed
sometimes.”
“Not like that.”
“Well, what do you
want me to do about it?”
“Clean yourself up. I
don’t know. It’s not supposed
to be like this.”
“It’s always like this.”
I don’t mean to sound as harsh
as I do. I clear my thoughts,
soften my voice. “Sorry. I
guess I’m extra sensitive
today.”
“It’s that kind of day.”
He says, shifting his weight.
He hops off the bed. “All that
cocaine might not be helping
either.”
“It was your idea.”
“And I stand by it.”
“Yeah. Today would
be worse without it.”
“It might be making
you bleed like that.”
“Maybe.” I shrug,
turning around, sitting up in
bed. “I don’t see how.”
“Who knows?” He
walks into the living room,
pulls a pair of panties on.
The bed beneath my
butt feels wet. I know there is a
lot of blood but I don’t want to
see it right now. My insides
feel raw, split open. I start to
gag…quietly.
“Are you going to be
sick?” Samuel asks from the
living room.
I don’t say anything.
“Don’t get sick on the
new sheets.” He says.
I make a sound in my
throat, cough.
“You think it’s going
to rain today?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
 “I like it when it
rains.”
“I know.”
“But maybe not
today.”
“Yeah.” He says.
“Today it might just
be too depressing.”
I hear him snort
cocaine in the living room and
I want to go out there and do a
line but I don’t want to get out
of bed right now. Not until the
blood starts to dry.

Chapter Eighteen
Samuel

I snort a thin line,

trying to take it easy for a
while and I rub my hands on
the couch cushions to try to get
some the blood off, but it’s
already started to dry and it
cakes onto my hands like
icing. The stench is moderately
foul, but I’m used to it.
I hope it doesn’t rain
today. If it rains, I think I will
just go insane. I take a deep
breath, sniff hard. The
apartment smells like semen,
blood, and…smoke, dust. The
windows are shattered, the
floor is covered in shards of
glass. The walls are decaying,
the wind picks up and the
apartment breathes foul,
stagnant air.
I rub my temples with
my eyes closed. I’m getting a
headache. The sirens won’t
stop. Some of the candles go
out in the breeze coming in
through the broken windows
and it’s almost completely dark
except for the flashing lights of
cop cars and fire trucks and
probably ambulances. Sounds
of engines, sirens, people
yelling, crying.
Seeing so much blood
coming out of Kevin really
freaked me out. I don’t know
what’s wrong with him…I
wasn’t any rougher than usual.
There’s no reason the tissue
would have ripped like that.
I’m pretty sure there’s
something he’s not telling me.
There’s a sound of
birds singing outside the
broken windows amidst the
bang and clatter of machines
raking piles of debris across
wet asphalt, police and
ambulance and fire truck
sirens, voices crying and
yelling at each other over the
deafness of a thousand tiny
explosions at once. As much as
I feel like we’re all going to
die in here, I feel somewhat
grateful that we’re not the ones
outside, trying to make sense
of how to rescue the useless
souls inside that don’t even
deserve to be rescued in the
first place. I hear the firemen
turn on their hoses and start
spraying parts of the building
or the wreckage of the airplane
where I assume fires have
begun to break out. I realize
that, in the case that anyone
actually does come to rescue
us, we are going to have to get
rid of all this cocaine before,
so we don’t have to go to
prison just because a plane hit
our building and we didn’t
have the resourcefulness to get
our own stupid selves out of
harm’s way. I decide there’s
only one logical way to get rid
of all of this coke, and I get to
it right away.
I snort another line,
this one fatter than the last and
I wonder why Kevin doesn’t
get out of bed and get cleaned
up. If it was me, I would
already be in the bath. I really
need a bath soon and if I don’t
get one I am going to freak
out. Kevin will need a bath
too, I guess. He’s such a fag
sometimes.

Chapter Nineteen
Silas

The sky is moonlit

and numb. The candles blew
out again, a while ago. Our
bodies move together and I
don’t remember the last time I
was this close to a woman.
Already I’m beginning to
forget why I came back here.
She pulls away from me.
“They’ve been
arguing like that for an hour.”
“Who?”
She puts her finger to her
mouth to hush me and I hear
voices through the wall,
screaming. Wilbur and Martha
having a fight, a violent fight
from the sound of it. Pots and
pans flying into walls, glass
breaking.
“What do you think
they’re fighting about?” I ask.
“Probably nothing.
Just for the sake of it.”
“Why do you think
people do that?”
“Do what?”
“Fight for the sake of
it.”
“They get bored.
Married for fifty years,
sometimes all you can do is
yell.”
“I remember being
married once. It was a lot like
being tied to a lamp post.”
“Sounds about right.”
“But lamp posts show
you the way.” I shrug.
“What if you don’t
know where you’re going?”
“No one knows where
they’re going.”
She disappears into
one of the other rooms,
lighting candles. I back into
the corner, into the shadows
again where she can’t see me,
where I can disappear. Relax.

“I was going to go…

somewhere else but I came
here first. Because you were
nice to me.”
 “Where are you
going?”
“Somewhere. I have
something I need to take care
of.”
“Okay. I’m going to
make noodles.”
“Okay. You ever seen
that Fish guy with a kid? A
little girl?”
“Sure. He’s got a
daughter. Her name’s…Molly,
I think.”
“You sure she’s his
daughter?”
The walls shake, we
ignore it.
“Yeah, pretty sure.
She was with him when he
moved in. Why?”
A blast of a shot gun down the
hallway. Cassie jumps and
drops a candle on the floor. I
tiptoe to the door wishing to
god I had my boots on. Broken
glass everywhere. I crack the
door open about an inch, just
enough for me to look down
the hall. The hallway is empty.
“Wilbur is crying.”
Cassie says. I look at her in the
kitchen and she’s got her ear
pressed against the wall. She’s
only half lit in the candlelight
but I can see just enough detail
in her face to tell that she’s
only mildly concerned.

Chapter Twenty
Kevin
 I clean up the blood
with a wad of tissues and
antibacterial soap. Samuel
seems to be disgusted with me
as if the same thing hasn’t ever
happened to him.
There’s a gun shot
down the hall but we both
pretty much ignore it. Happens
all the time. Almost as much as
planes falling from the sky.
A knot in my stomach
feels like it’s unraveling and
tearing itself apart. What is
happening inside of my body, I
truly have absolutely no idea.
I’m fairly certain that we’re all
going to die in this horrible, rat
infested building and if I had
my way, I would die in a
palace, a polished granite and
marble castle somewhere in
Europe. Maybe Spain, or
France. But Elliot thinks I’m
an idiot for thinking about
things like that, and maybe
he’s right, but I don’t care. I
like the way I think, and even
though I wish that my asshole
would stop bleeding so much
and that Elliot would be in a
better mood since we’re all
about to die and these are our
last moments together, I guess
when I really think about it,
this is about the way that I
always figured Elliot and I
were going to do, no matter
how much I dreamt of castles
in Europe, and strong knights
in armor holding me in their
muscular arms as I let out my
last breath.
Then I hear soft
footsteps and I limp over to the
door and dead bolt it and I take
a deep breath and I look over
at Samuel who is sitting at the
computer for some reason even
though there is no electricity,
and he’s staring at the blank
screen. He looks at me when
he hears the dead bolts click,
and he says: “You are such a
fag sometimes, you know
that?”

Chapter Twenty-One
Silas

I step into the hallway

with the straight razor held at
my waist. I knock lightly on
307. “Wilbur, You all right?”
I try the knob and it’s
unlocked so I push it open. I
find Wilbur huddled on the
floor of the kitchen holding a
sawed off shotgun.
“Wilbur?”
“I…killed…her.”
He’s got a mouthful of blood
and he’s sobbing deeply,
unsteady breaths.
I make a sound in my throat
and swallow saliva. I take a
breath.
Martha walks out of
the bedroom wearing a white
bathrobe and curlers in her
hair.
“He shot his stupid gun off and
blew up the goldfish’s bowl.”
Martha holds her hands on her
hips. “He’s crying because he
killed his stupid goldfish.”
“She’s not stupid.”
Wilbur sobs.
“Why are you
bleeding from the mouth,
Wilbur?” I ask.
Wilbur doesn’t say
anything. I look over at Martha
who looks pissed off.
“He ate it.” She says,
scowling. “He ate his stupid
goldfish.”
“Jesus.” I shake my
head.
“She’s not stupid.”
Wilbur moans, kneeling his
head towards the floor.
“You wouldn’t cry
like that over me.” Martha
hisses, then disappears into the
bedroom shutting the door
behind her.

A door slams shut in

the hallway, followed by
voices, hushed. I watch Wilbur
choke on little fish bones and
blood for a while, then I step
out into the hallway and close
the door behind me. I consider
going back to Cassie’s
apartment to gather my nerves
again but I figure there’s no
real sense in that.
I walk over to
apartment 303 and I knock on
the door.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Martha

Clean the shards of

wet glass off the floor, throw
them in the bin, sweep and
mop the floor while Wilbur
crouches and moans on the
kitchen linoleum, chewing on
his stupid goldfish, spitting
blood, choking on the bones.
“You’re tearing your
gums up, Wilbur. We ain’t got
money for no Dentist.”
He ignores me,
chokes, makes thick gargling
sounds in the back of his
throat, leans back, points to his
throat in quick frantic gestures.
“I told you that stupid
goldfish would kill you. You
didn’t believe me.” I walk
around him with the dustpan
and broom. “Don’t walk on
these floors, Wilbur, until
they’re dried. I just mopped
here.”
My shoes squeak on
the wet floors, stink of dirty
fish water in the air. I’ve got a
pot of stir fry and noodles
heating up on the stove, and
Wilbur doesn’t get to have any
of it because he has been so
rude to me all damn day and
this is my time to do what I
want without having to hear
him fuss and whine about
everything being my fault, or
the government’s fault, or the
communist’s.
I sit back on the couch with the
remote control for the TV set
and I turn on my soaps with
the fan blowing on me, while
Wilbur clutches at his throat in
the kitchen, grunting, knocking
things around the floor, making
a big fuss and I just ignore
him.

Chapter Twenty-Three
Silas

Silence, paranoid and

complete. I could drink the
moisture and fear in the air and
survive off the minerals in the
dust and grime on the floors of
the hallway for a dozen days if
I had to.
I knock on 303 again.
“Hello?” I mumble,
feeling stupid. “Anyone
home?”
“Who is it?” A little
girl’s voice from behind the
door.
I hold my breath.
“Molly?”
“Who is it?”
“It’s me.” I lean
against the door. “It’s daddy.”
A pause. The air turns
to mildew and animal bi-
products.
“You’re not my daddy.” The
voice is thick, but so fragile
and soft. The voice of a grown
up through a little girl’s vocal
chords.
I take a breath,
swallow. “I’m…I’m not?”
 “No.” She says
through the door. “My daddy
isn’t here right now.”
“Where…. Um,
where is daddy, molly?”
“How do you know
my name?”
I frown at the floor. I
hear voices on a megaphone
outside and notice through
shattered window frames from
where I’m standing that
spotlights are tracing through
the darkened sky.
“I…. don’t know.”
“Daddy’s not here.”
She says. “Daddy said not to
let strangers in.”
“I’m not a stranger.
I’m a friend of your fathers.”
The confidence in my voice
falters and I begin to wonder
what the hell I’m doing here.
“You promise?”
Molly’s voice squeaks through
the wood grains in the door.
A moment passes.
“No.” I shrug, stare at the door,
the dust in the air.
I take a breath, take
five steps from the door until
my back is pressed against the
opposite door.
“Molly, get away
from the door.”
“What?”
“Are you away from
the door?”
“What are you going
to do?”
“Are you away from
the door?”
 Sounds of movement,
bare feet stumbling on smooth
hardwood floors.
“Yes.” She says.
I duck down low and
put all of my weight into my
shoulder. I fly into the door
and the hinges creak, the wood
paneling splinters and cracks.
Molly screams and I fall
through broken pieces of wood
and screws. I fall on my side
and a large splinter of jagged
wood sticks me in the ribs, but
not deep enough to draw
blood. It’ll only be sore in the
morning. The shoulder, on the
other hand. The arm is pretty
much useless for the time
being.
I lift myself up with
my one good arm and I look
around me. Molly with her
black hair cut into bangs
wearing her pink pajamas with
her teddy bear tucked beneath
her left arm. She’s enormous, a
bulbous, round figure, her skin
sticky with grease, covered in
acne.
“You broke the door.” She
screams. “Dang, I was going to
open it if I knew you were
going to bust the door open.”
She doesn’t look
altogether scared at all and I’m
wondering in the back of my
head why I’m here but it
doesn’t really concern me all
that much right now, somehow.
“Hello, Molly.” I
shrug, unsure of what else to
say.
Molly just stands and
stares.
“How old are you
molly? You look about…what,
seven years old?”
“Eight.”
“Eight years old.” I
nod.
“You broke the door.”

I stand up and lean
against the wall. My left
shoulder is fucked. “Yeah,
well. Had to do it.”
“Why?” She asks. I
imagine her eyes are wide
open in the darkness.
I’m about to say
something but stop myself.
Why did I have to break the
door down. “Because.”
“Because why?”
“Just because. Shit, I
don’t know.”
Molly’s eyes go wide.
“What?” I frown.
“You said a bad
word.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
She slaps her palm to
her mouth.
“No way you’re my
kid.” I grin at the floor. “Fish
Douglas is your father?”
She nods with her
eyes wide open and her palm
still cupped to her mouth.
I nod to myself, step
over the remains of the door.
That germa-phobe
motherfucker actually got me
thinking Fish had kidnapped
my kid. Funny thing, I don’t
even have a kid, now that I
think about it. At least, not that
I know of.
I’m about to walk out the door
when I smell meat cooking in
the kitchen. The handful of
olives only teased my appetite
and I figure while Fish is busy
doing whatever he’s doing I
can help myself to some food
and get out of here before he
comes back.
“What’s cooking?” I
ask molly, stepping passed her
into the kitchen. Candles are lit
all over the place and I wonder
why anyone would keep so
many candles around, unless
they were waiting for
something like this to happen.
“Bacon.” Molly says.
“Bacon?” I frown,
walking to the stove. “That
doesn’t smell like bacon.”
“It’s special bacon.”
Molly says, standing next to
me. “Daddy ran out of the
regular kind, so he had to get
special bacon.”
“What the hell is
special bacon?”
I pick up a skillet that
contains strips of half cooked
meat. The burners have been
shut off but the grease still
sizzles and pops. Fish isn’t
very far, wherever he went. I
sniff at the pan and I don’t
recognize the smell. Horse
maybe. Turtle. I don’t know.
“What kind of meat is
this?” I ask.
“Bacon.” Molly says.
“I already told you.”
“What kind of
bacon?”
“Lady.” Molly says.
“What?” I look down
at her and she’s pointing into
the living room.
“It’s lady bacon.”
I walk into the living
room and in the flickering half
darkness I can make out a
dining table with a mound of
shadows laid on top of it.
Three steps closer and the
mound is a woman laid on her
back with her arms spread out.
I grab a candle from a box on
the floor and hold it close to
her. She looks young, maybe
early 20’s. Her eyes are closed
and I figure she’s probably
asleep. Then a thin trail of
blood trickles down her cheek
from the corner of her mouth. I
move the candle along her
body and everything seems
normal until I get to her legs. I
take a deep breath.
“Molly, don’t look.”
“I’ve already seen it.”
She says, several feet from me
now, back in the kitchen. “I
needed more bacon.”
The woman’s left leg
is severed just below the knee,
the stump tied with a blood
stained handkerchief as a
tourniquet.
I look around for the
rest of the leg but there’s no
sign of it. I point the candle
toward Molly to see what she’s
up to and she’s munching on
strips of leg meat from the pan
on the stove.
“Molly, don’t eat
that!”
“I can eat it if I want
to!” She hollers.
“Jesus.” I take a
breath and gag on the stale
musk and stink in the air.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m telling my daddy
you yelled at me.” Molly
mumbles, stuffing thick
handfuls of lady bacon into her
mouth, chewing frantically like
a starving dog.
I examine the woman,
pull on her eyelids. The pupils
are fixed and dilated. You rest
now, darlin.
I stand up and unfold
the straight razor and hold it in
my fist at my waist like an
extension of my forearm, just
in case something jumps out of
the shadows at me, which is
totally something I would do if
the shoe were on the other
foot. I look at Molly and I step
close to her and I grab the pan
from the stove and toss it to the
floor. The greasy lady leg
bacon splashes and scatters on
the soiled linoleum on the
kitchen floor.
“No fair!” Molly
hisses, scrounging at the meat
on the floor. Dirty brown
grease spreads across the
kitchen linoleum in thick
globular puddles.
“Molly.” I take a
breath, careful to keep my
wits, whatever wits I may have
left at this point. “Where
exactly did your father run off
to?”
Between mouthfuls of
dirty lady-meat bacon, Molly
shrugs with her back facing
me, her bulbous fat body
crouched on the floor. “Went to
ladies apartment.”
“Which lady?” I ask,
already knowing the answer to
this question.
“The lady who bakes
pies.” Molly shrugs, crouched
over the pile of dirty lady
bacon on the floor like some
sort of primitive, bestial
creature.
“Cassie?” I ask, my
voice cracking, weakening like
a scared little boy.
“Cassie.” She says,
swallowing. “Pretty name for a
lady.”

Chapter Twenty-Four
Samuel

After a while the

straw I’m using begins to split
in half so I throw it at the wall
and bury my face in the pile of
coke and inhale, snort, cough,
choke, snort again.
The dim flashing
lights coming in through the
broken windows begin to
distort, blur into dark, then the
air begins to glow with a static
radiance. I snort another line
and I can taste the copper
musk of blood in the back of
my throat.
Kevin says something about
doing too much cocaine and I
call him a faggot and he looks
horrified and he’s got ribbons
of blood streaming down his
inner thighs and he’s wearing
little polyester jogging shorts
that stop at the crotch and he’s
not wearing a shirt.
I snort another nostril full of
cocaine and my nose bleeds
into the coke and I start licking
it up until I can’t feel my
tongue anymore and my body
goes limp and I’m on the floor,
shaking gently, slowly.
The room glows. The room
glows and I can’t hear the
sound of Kevin’s voice
anymore.

Chapter Twenty-Five
Silas

I take off running.

And of course my foot catches
on bits of wiring sticking out
of the wall. I hit the floor in
full sprint. My head is banged
up pretty bad and I don’t get
far before I have to stop and
lean against a wall. The vision
blurs. I feel like I need a week
long nap. And a bottle. A bottle
of bourbon, and a week long
nap. And a rail of coke. That
sounds about right.
Unfortunately I’m abided none
of the above and I make my
way to Cassie’s apartment but I
can’t seem to get my eyes to
open all the way. I’m pretty
sure I have a somewhat mild
concussion but that’s really not
all that important to me right
now.
Cassie’s door is shut
and locked and I stupidly
knock. There’s no way in hell I
can survive another door
knocking over.
“Who is it?” A man’s
voice, sarcastic, cheerful.
I can’t think of
anything to say other than my
name.
“Silas.”
“Hello, Silas.” A thick
voice like boots against
crumbled glass. “What brings
you to this neck of the
woods?”
“Where’s Cassie?”
A moment passes. I
wait for a response. This
certainly seems like a good
time for a response.
“She’s here. She’s…
indisposed at the moment.”
“Is she alive?”
One, two seconds.
“Mostly.”
“Let me in.”
“I don’t think so.”
Chuckles.
“No. Really. Let me
in.” My voice is a whine, a
scared child’s protest.
“You broke my door,
didn’t you?” His voice is
distant, static. The sound of his
words travels around the
empty air like a contortionist’s
trick.
“Maybe.” I shrug in
the darkness.
“Where’s Molly?”
“Eating bacon.”
“She okay?”
“Yes. Probably.”
“Okay. Come inside.”
Sound of locks being
undone. The door creaks open.
I hesitate. “You blew
the candles out.”
“The wind did it.” He
says. His voice is farther away
now.
“Send Cassie out.” I
say.
“She likes it here. She
feels right at home.”
“I don’t trust you.” I
clear my throat, take a deep
breath.
“I don’t blame you.”
He says.
I walk into darkness,
find something that feels like a
miniature wooden chair in the
corner next to the door and I sit
down with my hands on my
knees.
“So.” He sighs. “Tell
me about yourself.”
“I don’t like talking
about myself.” I scratch a spot
on my leg that may or may not
be a spider bite. I imagine this
building is festering with
insect and arachnid life. It
doesn’t seem entirely
important at the moment but
it’s probably not the bad of a
thing that this building is
falling apart.
“What do you like to
talk about?” He asks. I imagine
his scarred and tattered face is
grinning like a Cheshire cat in
the darkness of Cassie’s
apartment.
“I don’t know that I
like talking very much at all,
actually.” My voice begins to
regain some of its former
confidence, though I’m not
sure why. I feel, at the
moment, like a little worm on a
big fucking hook.
Sounds of breathing.
Cassie’s voice moans in the
shadows. “What’s going on?”
“You’ve got a fever,
girl. Heard you moaning in
your sleep from across the
hall.”
“She doesn’t have a
fever.” I say.
“Come feel her
forehead, if you’re so sure.”
I start to stand up. “I
can’t see anything.”
“Doesn’t matter. Just
follow the sound of my voice.”
He says.
“I don’t like the sound
of your voice.” I take another
step in the shadows, take a
breath, swallow.
 “You’re an idiot.” He
says
I put my hand in front
of me on warm, wet flesh.
“That’s my forehead,
idiot. She’s right here.”
He grabs my hand and
sticks it palm down on her
face. “She feels cold.” I shrug
even though no one can see
me.
“Fever broke.” Fish
says.
“That’s not what it
feels like when a fever breaks.
You don’t know what you’re
talking about.” I grunt,
wanting to smoke another
cigarette, unable to remember
if I have any left or if I’m
going to have smoke the dust
on the floor to try to satisfy my
cravings.
“Guts.” Cassie moans.
“My guts feel like they’re on
fire.”
“You’re dying.” Fish
says.
“She’s not dying.
Maybe there’s something in
the water.” I bite my lip,
cough.
“Maybe she’s
hungry.” Fish says.
“I’m right here.”
Cassie says. “You don’t have
to pretend I’m not here.”
“She doesn’t need any
of your bacon,” I say. “If that’s
what you mean.”
“That’s Molly’s
bacon.” Fish says.
 “Fine.” I say, walking
back to my little wooden chair
in the shadows. “Molly can
have all the lady bacon she can
eat.”
“Damn right.” Fish
says.
“Why does your
neighbor think Molly was
kidnapped?” I ask, sitting back
on the little chair.
“Kidnapped?” Fish
says. “Who?”
“Elliot, I think. The
guy with the air filter.”
“Elliot drinks bleach
and drain cleaner and bathes
with dishwasher detergent.”
Fish says.
“Okay.” I nod. “But
why does he think you
kidnapped Molly?”
“He thinks I
kidnapped her? What an idiot.”
“You didn’t?”
“She’s my daughter.”
“Where’s the
mother?”
“Dead.” Fish sighs.
“Gone.”
“Oh.”
“I feel fine, guys.
Really.” Cassie says.
Spotlights fill the sky
outside. I swivel around in my
chair to watch clouds in the
moonlit sky light up, like
throwing matches into cotton
balls.
“Things are getting
interesting outside.” Fish says.
Cassie sighs. “I don’t
see anything.”
“Open your eyes,
girl.”
“Tired.” Cassie
grunts.
“Think they’ll rescue
us anytime soon?” I’m
watching the lights in the sky,
mesmerized.
“Maybe.” Fish says.
“Maybe not.”
“Well, there’s plenty
of bacon for everyone.” I say.
“Maybe I’ll slit your
pretty throat.” Fish says.
“I wish I knew what
you were talking about.” I
stare out the window.
“Me too.” He sighs.
“That would make this a little
less boring.”
“Oh, I don’t mean to
bore you. Let’s find a way to
make this more interesting,
what do you say?”
“Delightful.” He says.
“Are you two going to
kill each other now?” Cassie
asks.
A moment passes,
silence.
“Maybe.” Fish says.
I tighten my grip on
the little plastic handle of the
straight razor, flip it open, hide
it from the moonlight coming
in through the windows.
There’s no sound for a
moment or two, no shift of
movement, no breathing. Then
sirens in the distance, voices
through the walls, laugh tracks.
 “Has anyone seen
Goat, by the way?” Cassie
asks. “I just realized I haven’t
seen him since the plane hit.”
“Probably dead.” Fish
sighs.
“Who is Goat?” I ask.
For a moment I don’t
think anyone is going to
answer me.
Then Cassie says: “Elliot’s
roommate. Or ex roommate,
actually.”
“Elliot kicked him out
of the apartment because he
was filthy.” Fish says. “And
because he smelled bad, and
because he ate garbage. So
he’s been sleeping in the
hallway for a while now. No
one sees him during the day,
but when the sun sets he’s
there in a corner somewhere,
snoring in a pile of rubble.”
“His name is really
goat?” I ask.
“I guess so.” Fish
says. “That’s what everyone
calls him.”
“Why does everyone
call him Goat?”
“Because he eats
garbage.” Fish says.
“Goats eat garbage?”
I ask.
“Don’t you know
anything?” Fish says.
“I get…confused.
Sometimes.”
“Noticed that a while
ago.”
“Oh, shut up.” Cassie
says.
“I knew you were
starting to like him, girl.”
“Really.” Cassie
hisses. “Shut up.”
“Almost interesting.”
Fish says, his voice muffled. I
brace myself for something,
though I don’t know what.
Nothing happens, silence.
Then one of the chair
legs breaks, and I fall on my
ass.
“You broke my
chair.” Cassie says.
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
I sit on the floor with the razor
in my hand.
Cassie sniffs twice.
“Smells like meat. Someone’s
cooking meat.”
“Lady meat.” I stare
at what I guess is the floor in
the pitch darkness. I sit and
wait for the spotlights to light
up the sky again.
“Lady meat?” Cassie
mumbles.
“Fish Douglas killed a
woman.”
“What?”
“Fish Douglas killed a
woman.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
Fish says. “I cut her leg off and
stripped the meat and cooked
it.”
“She died.” I say.
“She died because you cut her
leg off.”
“Molly needed bacon.
We ran out.”
 “So you killed a
woman?” Cassie asks.
“I only cut the leg off.
Tied a hose around the stump.
She should have survived
that.”
No one says anything
for a moment or two.
Spotlights light the sky again. I
watch them illuminate the dark
clouds.
“Does anyone have
any cigarettes?” I ask.
“You’re out?” Cassie
asks.
“Sort of.”
“I have some.” Fish
says. Sounds of weight shifting
on the couch.
“Fish.” Cassie says.
“What?”
“Promise not to cut
my leg off?”
“Either of them?”
“Don’t cut anything
off of me. Okay?”
“What if Molly needs
more bacon?”
“Jesus.” Cassie says.
“I have bacon in my fridge.
You didn’t think to ask anyone
if they had bacon?”
“I don’t like asking
people for things.” Fish says.
“But you don’t mind
killing them?”
Flash of a match
illuminating a face, grooved,
textured with scars, skin like
leather, bronze. He lights three
cigarettes between his lips then
waves the match out. Trail of
dim orange light as he hands
one of the cigarettes to Cassie.
He tosses one in my direction
and I pick it up off the floor,
tuck it between my lips, inhale.
We smoke quietly for
a moment.
Sounds of screaming
outside, or cheering, hard to
tell from up here. Flash of light
in the window. For a second
the room is illuminated and I
get a sneak peak of where
everyone is in the room. About
what I expected: Cassie is half
reclined on the couch with her
legs tucked beneath her ass.
Fish Douglas sits on the couch
with his hands in his lap.
Lights trail off and there’s only
darkness again. Pitch black,
the color of nightmares.
“They’re more
white.” Fish says. “A solid,
hospital white.”
“What?”
“Nightmares.” He
says. “They’re not black.”
“Did I say that out
loud?” I ask.
“You guys are fucking
retarded.” Cassie says.
Fish Douglas sighs
heavily. I breathe smoke,
exhale, count to five, fold the
straight razor, lick my lips,
count to three, make a wish.
“Cassie.” I mumble.
“Do you have anything to
eat?”
“Bacon.” She says.
“We might want to
hold on to that.” I say. “Got
anything else?”
“Mayonnaise.” She
says. “Mustard, ketchup,
sardines.”
“Got any bread?” Fish
asks.
“Maybe.”
“Yes, or no.” Fish
says. “We need to know things
like this.”
“Why?” I ask.
“In case we need
bread.” Fish says.
“Oh, right.” Cassie
says. “That’s very important
information. What was I
thinking?”
Sounds of footsteps in
the hallway. Cassie starts to
say something but Fish
silences her with a low hiss.
Someone clears their
throat in the open doorway.
“You guys okay in here?”
“Who’s there?” Fish
asks.
“Kevin.”
“Hi Kevin.” Cassie
says.
“Hi Cassie. What’s
going on?” Kevin moans.
“Nothing.” I say.
“Telling ghost stories in the
dark.”
“Oh.” Kevin says. He
sounds weak, somehow. And
he may or may not have a sore
throat, probably from inhaling
dust these past several hours.
And the cocaine probably
doesn’t help either.
 “Did you have a bad
dream?” Fish asks.
“No.” Kevin says, not
moving. “My asshole is
bleeding.”
A hush falls over the
room.
“I think there may
be…something wrong with
me.” Kevin says, sniffing hard.
“No.” Fish says.
“That’s very normal, Kevin.”
“Is it bleeding now?”
Cassie asks.
“Hold on, let me
check.” Moment of silence.
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Where is Samuel?” I
ask. “Why doesn’t he help
you?”
“He was going to.”
Kevin says, and I’m imagining
him standing there holding a
teddy bear in his arms. “But
he’s overdosing on cocaine and
he’s locked himself in the
bathroom and I can’t get the
door open.”
“Is he dead?” Fish
asks.
“Why?” Cassie says.
“So you can cut him into
bacon and feed him to your
obese daughter?”
“I wouldn’t feed her
cocaine bacon.” Fish says.
“She’d be awake for a week.”
“I don’t think he’s
dead.” Kevin says. “But he’s
not answering me. I think he…
might die.”
“You might want to
plug up your butt.” I say.
“With wads of toilet paper or
something. So you won’t lose
anymore blood.”
“Bullshit.” Fish says.
“You should bleed out.”
“Why?” Kevin asks.
“So you’ll die.” Fish
says.
“Now you want to
make Kevin-bacon.” Cassie
moans.
“Enough about
bacon.” I say, waving my
hands in the darkness. “You’re
making me fucking hungry.”
“I think I might pass
out.” Kevin says. “I don’t feel
so good.”
“I would let you lie
down on my bed.” Cassie says.
“But you’re bleeding from the
asshole, you see, that’s the
problem I have with you laying
down on my bed.”
“That’s okay.” Kevin
says. “I’ll just lay down in the
hallway.”
“That’s not a great
idea.” I say. “The floor is
dirty.”
“Everything is dirty.”
Fish says. “This entire building
is…festering.”
“I don’t care.” Kevin
says. Sounds of movement,
wooden floor boards creaking
under his weight. “I’m just
going to sleep for…a little
while.”
“More likely die.”
Fish says.
 “I don’t care.” Kevin
sighs, uninterested.
“Please don’t leak
butt blood in my doorway,
Kevin.” Cassie says.
“I won’t.” Kevin says.
“I think I’m all bled out.”
“Good for you.” Fish
says.
“I’m hungry.” I moan.
“Somebody feed me.”
“Feed yourself.” Fish
says.
“You can go eat lady
meat.” Cassie says.
“I don’t want lady
meat.”
“What’s lady meat?”
Kevin moans.
“You don’t want to
know.” Cassie says.
“You wouldn’t be
interested anyway.” Fish says.
“You don’t like lady meat.”
“You’re an idiot.”
Cassie says, to Fish, I think.
I grab my belly in
both hands. “So hungry.”
“Oh shut up.” Fish
growls. “We’re all hungry.”
“Why does Molly get
to eat all that…lady-bacon?
I’m starving here. No one’s
killed anyone for me to eat.”
“Okay, really.” Kevin
says, moaning. “What are you
guys talking about?”
“Shut up, Kevin.”
Fish says. “You really don’t
want to know.”
“Maybe I do.” Kevin
says.
 “No.” Cassie sighs.
“You really don’t.”
“Fish killed a woman
and cooked her and fed her to
his daughter?” Kevin asks.
Moment of silence.
“Okay.” Cassie says. “You
figured it out on your own.
Good job.”
“Daddy?” Molly’s voice from
the hallway. “Why is there a
man on the floor?”
“What are you doing in the
hallway, darlin?” Fish says. “I
told you to stay in the
apartment.”
“I’m hungry again.” Molly
says.
“How can you be hungry?” I
ask. “You have an entire
human leg to chew on.”
“Shut up, Silas.” Fish growls.
“I’m out of lady
bacon.” Molly moans.
“How can you be
out?” I ask. “There was an
entire leg’s worth in that
skillet.”
“Silas, shut the fuck
up.” Fish hisses.
“You knocked it over,
remember?” Molly says.
“Silas.” Fish says.
“You knocked over Molly’s
bacon?”
“Sort of.” I say,
shrugging. “I guess so.”
“I think you owe
Molly an apology.”
“You owe that bacon
lady an apology.” Cassie says
to Fish.
 “Silas.” Fish says.
“Apologize to Molly.”
“I’m sorry, Molly.” I
say.
“I’m hungry.” Molly
says.
“I’m hungry, too.” I
say.
“Me too.” Kevin says.
“Okay.” Fish says.
“We’re all hungry. Now
everybody shut up.”
“Daddy, when are the
lights going to come back on?”
Molly whines.
“When the sun rises.”
Fish says. “Now go back to the
apartment, darlin. It’s not safe
for you to be out right now.”
“But I’m scared.”
Molly says. “And the dead
bacon lady is making noises
again.”
“So hungry.” I say.
I imagine twirling
around the room like a
ballerina slicing every throat in
the room then jumping out the
window in a swan dive. The
notion passes.
“Silas.” Fish says.
“What are you thinking
about?”
I pause, unsure of
myself. Taste in my throat like
copper, sucking on a mouthful
of pennies. “I’m thinking of a
way I could gut you like a fish
and throw your body out the
window, maybe watch you
shatter a cop car’s window
before your spine breaks in
half.”
The room is quiet.
Maybe I’ve said too much.
“Why would you
want to kill me?” Fish asks.
“Not really sure.”
“I think you may have
some things all backwards. I
think you have brain damage.”
“Maybe.” I say,
shrugging, blind. “There are
too many people in here.”
“Molly, go home.”
Fish growls.
“But, daddy.”
“Go. Home.” He says.
Sounds of tiny
footsteps trailing off down the
hallway.
“Kevin?” Fish says.
Silence. “Kevin, are you
awake?”
“I think he’s dead.”
Cassie says, clearing her
throat.
“This is wonderful.” I
sigh.
“I wonder how
Samuel is doing.” Cassie says.
“Maybe dead.” Fish
says. “Maybe everyone’s
dead.”
“This is a fucking
nightmare.” Cassie says.
I take a deep breath.
“I’m going next door.”
“Next door where?”
Cassie asks.
“Next door to Kevin’s
apartment.”
“Why?” Fish asks.
“They have a lot of
cocaine.” I say, standing up.
“Perfect.” Fish says.
I step over Kevin’s
body then walk carefully down
the hallway.

Chapter Twenty-Six
Cassie

“What do you think is

going to happen?”
“One of you will die.
Either one. You’re both idiots.”
“You fancy him, a
little. Don’t you?”
“Don’t be retarded.”
“Yeah. You do.”
“Leave me alone.”
“You really think his
memory’s as fucked as it
seems?”
“Probably. You broke
furniture over the back of his
head.”
“Yeah. I’m surprised
he can still…function after
that.”
“You think he’ll
remember what happened…
eventually?”
“Doubt it.”
“And what if he
does?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“He’s dead either
way.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Silas

Wandering the
hallways, trying to find the
doorknob to the cocaine
apartment in the dark.
Sound of a door creaking open:
“Silas?”
“Who’s there?”
“Elliot. What’s going
on?”
“Kevin is bleeding
from the asshole. He went to
sleep, might be dead. Samuel
is overdosing on cocaine,
might be dead. Some lady was
killed and cooked up as bacon.
Fish and Cassie are sitting on a
couch.”
“Fish is in Cassie’s
apartment?”
“Yeah.”
“Who killed the
woman?”
“Fish did. So his
daughter could eat more
bacon.”
“Fish has a
daughter?”
“It would seem so.
Say, you know where your
roommate is?”
“Ex-roommate. How
do you know about him?”
“Just heard about him.
He really eats garbage?”
Moment of silence.
“The girl in Fish’s apartment,
is that his daughter?”
“Yeah. Seems like it. I
was all convinced she was my
daughter for a while.”
“That changes
everything.”
“Well, he cut off some
woman’s leg. Figure that’ll get
him evicted.”
“Guess so.”
A pause. “I’m going
next door for some cocaine.
You want some?”
“No thanks. If
anything else happens, let me
know, okay?”
“Like what?”
“Like, f anyone else
dies, or something.” Elliot
says.
“Oh, okay. You’ll be
the first to know.”
He shuts the door and locks it.
I walk into 305 and I close the
door behind me.
Lit candles flickering
in the breeze. Spotlights,
sirens, flashing red and blue
lights on the walls. The pile of
cocaine on the table is
scattered, noticeably smaller
but still ridiculous, enough of
it here to kill a horse.
Sounds of gurgling
from behind the bathroom
door. I sit on the floor with my
face hovering over the table. I
don’t even bother using a
straw. Sniff hard with my face
in the pile. Tilt my head back,
pinch one nostril, sniff hard,
snort.
“Don’t do all our
coke.” A moan from the
bathroom.
 “Samuel.” I say,
snorting from the pile again.
“Everyone thought you were
dead.”
“I am dead.”
I break the pile into
rails because it’s more fun that
way and I snort one with the
little straw.
“You don’t sound
dead.” I choke.
“Don’t be so sure.”
He says, through the door.
“You’ve overdosed.”
“I know.”
“What does it feel
like?”
The bathroom door
creaks open a couple inches.
“Like dying from the inside
out.”
“You’re pretty
subdued for a cocaine
overdose.” I say, snorting a
rail.
“That’s because I’m
dead.” He says, squeezing his
head between the door and the
wall.
“What are you doing
on the floor?” I ask, lighting
one of Kevin’s menthols from
the pack on the table.
“I can’t…get up.” He
says.
I stand up and pace
around in close, frantic circles.
My pupils must be the size of
fists. I walk over to where
Samuel is crawling through the
bathroom door.
“Are you in much
pain?” I ask.
His face presses into
my foot. I notice he’s wearing
boots, not mine, but like mine.
“Terrible.” He says.
“What size shoe do
you wear?”
“Eleven.” He says.
“Perfect.”
“You can’t have my
boots.” He wraps his arms
limply around my leg.
“Why not?”
“They’re my boots.”
“You’re dead.” I say.
“You said so yourself.”
He kicks his feet on
the floor. I manage to get one
of the boots off, then start
working on the other one. I put
them on and they fit perfectly,
like boots are supposed to fit. I
stand with one foot on the
toilet so I can see in the
candlelight. Steel toes, military
style. Samuel must be the
dominant male in the
relationship. He wears combat
boots, and made Kevin bleed
from the asshole.
“You stole my
boots…you fucker.” Kevin
whines.
“Sorry. I’ll buy you a
new pair for Christmas.”
I tie the boots, walk
over to the table. I snort
another rail of cocaine and I’m
starting to feel a little better.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Silas

I lick my index finger

and poke it into the pile of
coke and stick the finger in my
mouth and suck on it. Then I
stand up and light another
menthol and stick the pack in
my pocket and I walk into the
hallway not bothering to shut
the door behind me and I walk
over to 308 and I kick my foot
in the doorway and the toe of
my new boots thumps Kevin in
the ribs. The sound is hollow,
the body doesn’t respond. Like
a shift of light in the back of
my head I suddenly miss my
missing finger, but I don’t
know why. I can feel it,
sometimes, like it’s still there.
But it’s not.
“Is he dead?” I ask,
standing in the doorway. Some
of the candles have been relit
but they don’t illuminate
anything somehow.
“Is who dead?”
Cassie asks, her voice on the
other side of the apartment.
“Kevin.” I say.
“Probably.”
“Fish still here?”
“No, he went home.
He’s pretty pissed off about his
door.”
I walk over Kevin and
lean against the wall, smoking.
“Yeah, well. He can go fuck
himself.”
“You sound cheerful.”
She says, lighting a match in
the kitchen.
“Samuel is dead.”
“Figured as much.”
She says. “There’s a lot of that
going around lately.”
“It’s been that kind of
night, I guess.”
“Think they’ll come
rescue us soon?”
“Why does everyone
keep asking that?” I ask.
“I think it’s a normal
response, a reasonable
question.” She says. “But
maybe we’re scared.”
I watch her silhouette stand in
front of the open windows,
staring out onto the street,
commotion, flashing lights,
sirens.
“Bullshit.” I say.
“None of you seem to care at
all.”
“The cost of living
here.” She turns around to face
me, holding a candle to her
face, inches from her lips. I
expect her to say something
else, but she doesn’t.
“I think I’m going to
kill Fish.” I say.
“Why?” She asks,
looking out the window again.
“I…don’t know. I
remember some things. Weird
stuff. Like, someone paid me
to kill somebody. I don’t
know.”
“He beat you up
pretty bad.” Her voice is a
million miles away. “But you
started it.”
“I did?”
“I think you have
brain damage.”
“Probably.”
“You don’t seem like
someone who would have
amnesia.”
“What does that kind
of person seem like?”
“I don’t know.” She
says. “Just…not you.”
“Maybe.” I shrug,
grind my teeth together, sniff
hard, exhale.
“Maybe.” She sighs.
“Maybe. Did Samuel give you
his boots?”
A moment passes. I
clear my throat. “Sort of.”
“I heard you talking
to him through the walls.”
You live on the
opposite side of the hallway.” I
say.
“I didn’t say which
walls.”
“Eavesdropping.” I
say.
“Something like that.”
“Do you think Fish is
cooking more lady bacon for
his fat little girl?” I ask.
“God, he really killed
that woman, huh?”
“I don’t even know
who she was.”
“Who knows. There’s
an old lady who lives down the
hall. Haven’t seen her in a
while.”
“Probably dead.” I
say. “Like everyone else.”
“Why is this
happening?” She asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. I don’t
understand it.”
“There is no
purpose.” I say. “You need to
remember that.”
“No.” She says,
pacing in the darkness. “I don’t
need to remember anything.”
A pause.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I like
that better.”

“Silas.” She says,

turning to look at me in
candlelight and shadows.
“You’re talking in your sleep
again.”
Awake in puddles of
bleach in a faded white
bathtub. Sting of chemicals in
my eyes and throat. I splash
and scream in the porcelain tub
and my eyes won’t adjust to
the light. It’s bright, and
humming like a thousand
machines, and burning holes
through my retinas.
I shake my head.
Darkness, candle light, sirens,
spotlights. “What?”
“I’m walking, but I
can’t see in here.”
A pause. “What?”
“Are you
hallucinating again?” Cassie
asks, her voice inches from my
lips.
“Again?” I mumble,
take a breath.
“You’re slipping in
and out.” She says, not
realizing how that sounds. I
smile in the shadows.
“I can still see you.”
She says.
“No, you can’t.” I
grin. “I’m lurking.”
“You’re an idiot.” She
says. “You’re both idiots.”
“Both who?”
“You and Fish. You’re
both fucking retards.”
I light another
cigarette. “Why did you help
me?”
“Doesn’t matter.” She
says.
“You really think I
have brain damage? I mean,
like, retarded and shit? You
think it’s because of the
beating Fish gave me?”
“You’re head is pretty
much fucked. But that big scar,
the one just above your left
temple, that looks pretty old.
You’re brain damage might be
older than that beating he gave
you earlier.”
“It’s all relative.” I
shrug, sniffing hard. “It’s nice
to be cared for, though.”
“How perfect to be
acknowledged.” She says.
I imagine she’s smiling in the
shadows. I imagine kissing her
on the lips, our tongues tying
together like knots. I feel a
cold sweat running down my
back. I want her to kiss me. It’s
not going to happen.
“So.” She says,
looking out the window. “What
now?”
I listen to my breath.
“Maybe I’ll go slit his throat.”
“There’s a lot of that
going around, isn’t there?”
“Not a lot.” I take
three steps towards her, take a
breath.
“Don’t get too close.”
She says. “I’m not as fragile as
you think.”
“I don’t think you’re
fragile.”
“Of course you
don’t.” She says.
“I would have liked to
have tried one of your pies.”
“Yeah.” She sighs.
“That would have been nice,
wouldn’t it?”
“How are you feeling,
by the way? Fish said you had
a fever.”
“Fish is an idiot.” She
says.
“Okay.” I shrug,
throw the cigarette on the
floor, light the last cigarette,
take a deep breath.
“Is there any more
coke left?” She asks.
“Yeah.” I say,
breathing smoke. “They had a
stock pile.”
“I think I’d like some
of that coke now.” She walks
across the living room. “You
do what you have to. I’ll be
next door.”
 Sound of a gunshot in
one of the apartments.
Cassie walks out the
door and I follow her into the
hallway with a candle in my
hand to light the way. She
turns around and blows out the
candle then walks across the
hallway and goes into 305 and
closes the door behind her. I
drop the candle on the floor.

Chapter Twenty-Nine
Elliot

I’m able to stand,

though I shouldn’t be. I
stumble over the couch, hit the
floor, my ribs feel…bruised. I
drop the gun…on the floor. It
makes a thud. I reach towards
one of the shelves for a
facemask but my fingers are
too weak to grab one, useless. I
feel so…tired. Blood runs
down my face, my neck. Taste
of…burning feathers in the
back of my throat. There’s a
knock on the door and I take a
step, anchored to the floor,
another step. There’s another
knock and I’m almost at the
door. One last step and I undo
the locks, run my fingers down
the textures of the hinges in the
door, open it…just…a crack.

Chapter Thirty
Silas
Sounds of doors opening.
“Is everyone okay?” I
ask.
“Somebody shot
somebody.” A woman’s voice,
possibly Martha’s.
“Was it Wilbur?” I
ask.
“No. He choked on
fish bones about an hour ago.”
“He’s dead?”
“Probably.”
“Damn.”
“It sounded like it
came from over there.”
“Over where?”
“Where I’m pointing
at.”
“I can’t see anything.
It’s dark. What are you
pointing at?”
“The clean guy’s
apartment. The gunshot came
from in there.”
“Okay. I’ll check it
out.”
“Why?” She asks.
“I don’t know. Seems
like something I would do.”
“Okay.” She says.
“I’m going to bed.” She closes
the door and locks it behind
her.
I try to open the door
to 306 but it’s locked.
“Elliot, you okay?”
Silence.
“Elliot. Open the
door.”
The door creaks open.
“Elliot?”
“I shot myself in the
head.” Elliot moans. “I
should…probably be dead.”
“I know the feeling.”
I say.
“How long is it
supposed to take?”
“Depends, I guess.” I
shrug.
“Well, I’m bleeding
pretty bad.” He says. “So it
should be pretty soon.”
“I guess so. Head
wounds tend to bleed a lot
though.”
“Yeah.” He moans.
“That seems about right.”
“Do you need
anything?” I ask. “Like a glass
of water, or something?”
“I don’t think so.” He
says. “Tap water is full of
bacteria and chemicals. The
government, you know, they’re
trying to brainwash us by
putting things into the drinking
water.”
“There’s no running
water anyway.” I mumble.
“You comfortable?”
“Sure, I’m fine.” He
says, starting to close the door.
“I’ve got pillows and things.
I’ll be fine.”
“Well, not really. But
okay. You take it easy on
yourself…” I nod. “In the next
life.”
“Will do.” He says,
shutting the door and locking
it.
Dropping like flies.
Like goldfish. Except goldfish
don’t drop, they float. And my
mind is drowning in dirty
bathwater, bleach, antibiotics,
smoke.
Sounds of footsteps,
thick leather boots with toes
made of steel, laced up the
calves up to the knees.
Flash of memory,
blinding, voices in a haze,
headaches.

“It’s not that easy. He’s

dangerous.”
“We’re all
dangerous.”
“Some more than
others.”
“Okay. Half now, half
after you kill him.”

I’m suffocating on
fresh air, smell of pigeon
feathers and sawdust.
Water floods the
spaces between walls and I
remember curled black hair
burning gray on a meaningless
surface of water. A lake.
Seagulls and green oak trees
and wooden boats breathing
lifeless down stream. Images
of blood on natural wood
surfaces, my tiny hands
clinching a rosary in my hand
so tight that my palms begin to
bleed, squeezing god’s mercy
into thick red drops.
I stand in the hallway.
Pitch blackness, nothing. Smell
of bleach in my nostrils. Piss
and vinegar. I hold my breath
and I can hear a heart beat in
the darkness. I close my eyes.
Breathe. Maybe he thinks I
don’t hear him in the shadows.
His heart is an engine.

Chapter Thirty-One
Kevin

I’m awake, barely.

My body feels hollow, emptied
out, drained. Soreness between
my legs, like shitting
thumbtacks, and other than
that, I don’t feel anything,
numb, nothing.
Lying on the floor in
the hallway, dust stuck to the
wet parts of my face and arms,
my…chest. I don’t know if
there’s any blood left in me, or
if I’m still bleeding. I see…
flashing lights, red and blue,
reflecting off the walls. Sounds
of…crowds, machines,
creaking boards, breaking
glass.
Flash of light and I’m
a child again, playing softball
with neighborhood boys. I’m
up to bat. The pitcher is a
freckled boy with shaggy
orange hair. I have a crush on
him. He throws the ball. The
bat barely connects. It doesn’t
matter. I will get to watch the
kid undress, later, in the locker
room. He will have a small
circumcised penis and I will
steal a glimpse of it when he
takes of his cup. It will be
small and shiny with sweat. I
will remember it when I’m
lying in bed at night. I am not
old enough to know how to
masturbate. I may not be able
to get aroused, even. But I will
think about the red head boy’s
penis and I will wonder why
the other haven’t seemed to
figure out, yet, that we can
look at each other changing
sometimes, and it’s sometimes
kind of nice.
Another flash and I’m
standing in the rain. I’m going
to college. But right now it’s
dark outside and I don’t know
how to get back to my dorm.
The truck that dropped me off
was rusted and it smelled like
burnt oil. If it were a car, they
would have locked me in the
trunk. They probably would
have driven around for miles
with me in the darkness with
an open gas canister rolling
around me. But they were in a
truck, not a car. The baseball
bat they used made me think of
playing softball as a kid.
Things like this didn’t exist
when I was a kid. A child’s
world is a playground and a
chili cheese dog every day for
lunch. And not much else. This
is my first broken nose, maybe
a rib, or two. It’s hard to tell in
this rain. Cell phones have not
yet been invented to be any
smaller than a shoebox and not
that many people have one. So
I start to walk along the side of
the road, hoping there will be a
pay phone somewhere close. I
don’t know how I am going to
explain this to my father. But
right now, it doesn’t matter. All
I care about is getting home
and changing into dry, warm
clothes, and going to sleep.
Flash again, and I’m
meeting Samuel for the first
time. The ecstasy he slips
beneath my tongue hasn’t
taken effect yet, but it doesn’t
matter. He’s wearing a tight
black shirt. He looks like an
off duty police officer, in a
good way. We dance, he and I,
very close. I can smell his
sweat, taste. After a while, the
ecstasy begins to take effect. If
I am dreaming, don’t wake me
up. Don’t wake me up. Later
we’re in his apartment, and it’s
like we’ve already decided to
fall in love, and it’s all
happening now, it’s all now
and I want him to know, to feel
how much I love him, and I
know he does because I feel
his love. Don’t wake me up,
don’t.
But I’m back in the
hallway again. I can’t feel my
body, and that’s probably a
good thing. Blood is
everywhere, but I can’t smell
it, can’t taste it like I could
before.
After a while I start
to…lose consciousness again, I
think, because the sounds
get…muffled, the lights dim. I
don’t mind it so much. This
‘life flashing before your eyes’
shit is highly over rated.

Chapter Thirty-Two
Silas

A shift across the

hallway, a thin string of light
reflecting a flash of polished
metal. Shadows crossing from
wall to wall.
I unfold the straight
razor and hold it at my hip.
Silence.
“Even if I asked who
put you up to this, you
wouldn’t be able to tell me,
would you?” Sounds of
animals forming words,
growling, hiss of vocal chords
scraping through scar tissue.
“Probably.” I shrug,
gripping the razor. Something
snaps. Thick cracking sound
like breaking bone, but it’s
only imaginary. “My mother’s
black eyes.”
“What?” The shadows
grunt.
“My mother’s black
eyes were windows into
something neither one of us
could ever understand.”
“You can’t even
remember how you got here,
or why you’re here, but you
remember…your mother?”
“Of course. I’m not
really crazy.”
“Sure you are.”
 I hear my voice again,
but can’t feel my lips forming
the words: “I remember…she
dies on that boat…every night.
That little wooden boat on the
lake, set on fire in the water.”
“Molly’s asleep.” He
says. “Try not to raise your
voice. She’s a very light
sleeper.”
Sounds of bare feet on
dust and wooden creaking
floors.
“Where have all the
seagulls gone?” I mumble.
“North.”
“You’re an idiot.” He
says.
I can feel his breath.
His stench is musk, and blood,
and grease. His eyes burn blue
in the dark. I clinch my fist
around the straight razor like
I’m trying to break it in half.
“If you’re going to do
something, do it. This is
fucking boring.” He growls,
glow of jagged white teeth
below the blue eyes.
“I really tried to kill
you before? Earlier today?.”
“And I handed your
ass to you, left you to die.”
“I don’t remember
any of that.”
“I broke a chair over
the back of your head. That’s
why you’re brain is so fucked
up now, probably permanently.
I’m surprised you gained
consciousness as quickly as
you did. Or at all.”
 “Cassie took good
care of me.”
“Did she now.”
Spark of light, a blade
turns around in his fist in the
moonlight, flashing, blue and
red, sirens.
“Why does Molly eat
so much bacon?” I ask.
“She’s been raised on
it.” He clears his throat,
disappears into the shadows
across the hall. His eyes
disappear. “Her mother died
when she was little. It’s all I
know how to cook.”
“Why don’t you learn
some new recipes?”
Moments pass.
Sounds of breathing. I think of
old westerns, two men with
weapons standing several
paces apart, ready to kill each
other. But they wait.
“You know…” I
mumble. “I thought…I thought
Molly was my daughter…for a
while there.”
“Well.” He sighs.
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah. Well. I wish I
could remember who paid me
to kill you.”
“Me too. I wouldn’t
mind knowing who that was.”
“Any ideas?”
“Maybe. Not telling.”
A moment passes,
silence. “Well.” I shrug. “Now
what?”
“Your call.”
“Well …you think
maybe we’re even now?”
He takes a breath.
“You try to kill me, I give you
permanent brain damage?
Yeah, that sounds about even, I
guess.”
“It might be nice to
kill you, I think. But I’m not
really of a mind to do it. Not
right now.”
“What are you
suggesting?”
“Maybe a truce?”
“Maybe.” He says.
“How long until they
clear out an exit, you think?”
“Might be a couple
days, I guess.” He says.
“Fuck. That’s a long
time.”
“I guess so.” He says.
“Well, either we kill
each other or we let it go and
wait until the rescue team, or
whatever can get us out of
here.”
“You promise not to
fuck with Molly?”
“Why would I fuck
with Molly?”
“You broke our door
down. You’re fucking brain
damaged.”
“Oh yeah. Well, okay.
I’ll….behave. I guess.”
“Okay.”
Sounds of cloth
ruffling, flash of light.
“I’m sheathing my
knife.” He says.
“Yeah. Okay.”
Shift of movement. A
moment passes and he emerges
from the shadows into the flash
of light from out side. He stops
beside the shattered window
between us looking out over
the streets, pale glow of
moonlight, flashing lights of
squad cars.
“You’d make a lot of
bacon for molly to eat. Not a
lot of fat on you, but she’ll eat
just about anything. As long as
it’s greasy.”
“Well.” I clear my
throat. “I don’t like that plan.”
“I don’t blame you.”
He says.
“Don’t you think that
dead lady in your apartment
will be enough bacon for a
while?” I ask.
“It’s not like she’s
refrigerated.” He says. “She’ll
go bad pretty quickly.”
“Well, stick her in the
damn freezer then.”
“Maybe. That’s not
the main issue though.”
“This is stupid.” I
clear my throat.
“Yeah.”
He takes a step, pulls
his knife out, holds it at his
waist with the blade extended
to the side. It appears to be a
large combat knife, grooved
edges, reflecting light from
outside like a mirror.
“Let’s just get it over
with.” I shrug.
“Whatever.” He says.
I hunch down low and
back away from the moonlight.
“I can still see you.”
He says, advancing towards
me.
“No, you can’t.”
He gets within a
couple feet and I turn my body
with the straight razor
extended at arms length away
from me. He swings his blade
across the air and I back away
from him. Something in my
side pops, sounds of splintered
bones. The broken rib must
have finally separated. I don’t
feel any pain but when I take
another step my legs don’t
work and I stumble, land on
my knees, my hands go limp
and the razor hits the floor.
Fish stands in the
moonlight, watches me for a
moment, sticks his combat
knife in his boot and leans
down in front of me so that
we’re face to face.
“Your body is in
shock.” He says.
“Something like that.”
“You’re really in no
shape to be fighting me.”
“Probably.”
“Unless you’re
playing possum.”
“That’s…fairly
doubtful.” I struggle to make a
fist but my hands aren’t
responding. I teeter over and
land on my ass in the dust,
sounds of wooden floorboards
creaking beneath my weight.
Fish circles around
me, grabs the straight razor
from the dust on the floor,
holds it in his fist, leans down,
presses the edge of the razor
into my throat. My body
spasms. He’s holding onto the
top of my head like a
basketball.
“Up the airy
mountains.” Fish growls, his
lips quivering against my ear.
“Down the rushing glen.”
Sting of the razor
sliding across my throat,
warmth of blood gliding down
my neck, my chest. His touch
is very light…the cut is…
shallow. The intention
probably isn’t to kill me. He
throws the straight razor out
the broken window, and he
shoves me forward and I hit
the floor, face first, and
everything…goes…blank.

Chapter Thirty-Three
Goat

I watch them come

and ago, apartment to
apartment, from my safe dark
corner of the world. Dust and
grime, these things are a part
of me, my air, my skin. I
breathe in the filth, chewing on
bits of leather, someone’s old
torn belt discarded into a trash
bin. One man’s treasure, and
my babies swarm around me.
Edgar and Sally flock together,
vomit microscopic bile into
brown and black banana peels.
Stuart flies in circles, sick. He
might be dying, two-day life
span and I’ll weep for him
when the time comes.
My flies, my babies follow me
everywhere. My children. The
one’s I haven’t named yet,
they’re angry with me, swarm
in my face, tickle my nose with
their tiny feet and hairs and
wings. But I don’t swat at
them, I don’t ever try to hurt
them. My babies, I am a model
father.
The clean one thinks he’s so
grand, kicking me out into the
dust and clutter, the dumpsters
and trashcans and gutters, he
thought he would be so clever,
but I like it this way. This is
my home, the dark wet
corners, the corrosion and
decay. Lick moisture off of
mold and moss on the walls,
eat leftovers and cobwebs. I
will survive far longer than any
of them will. I will survive
everything.
You smell that, babies? Smells
like rain. And smoke in the air.
The building is falling apart.
Won’t be long now. I stay in
the shadows, no one can see
me. No one knows I’m here. I
sense a fire soon, not now, but
a burst pipeline in a couple
hours or so and the building
will go up in flames, go down
in piles of rubble. Trash, and
crumbs, and bodies, and we
will survive. We will out live
everybody.

Chapter Thirty-Four
Kevin

I wake up again,
covered in blood, and I’m
probably in hell by now. I
watch the Devil slit
somebody’s throat, blanketed
in darkness at the other end of
the hall.
Hell looks a lot like
the hallway in my apartment
building. I try to kick my feet
on the floor but there is
something wrong with me. My
muscles won’t respond, but I
don’t feel any pain. Hell seems
like it would be painful, but I
don’t feel anything. My pants
are filled with shit and blood,
my silk boxers are probably
ruined.
I wonder how Samuel
is doing. He seemed rather
grumpy earlier but maybe he’s
in a better mood now. I would
like for him to hold me, really.
I would like that very much.
Cassie comes out of
my apartment holding a plastic
bag with our cocaine in it. I
don’t mind, but it looks like
she’s stealing our cocaine. I try
to make words but only sounds
come out of my mouth and no
one seems to be able to hear
me, or they’re ignoring me.
I remember when I
was seventeen years old,
coming out to my parents. Out
of the proverbial closet, and it
was a fucking nightmare. I
have no memories of them
after I closed the door to the
house and started walking
down the street. It’s funny,
really, how many doors in ones
life are closed once you open
the door to your closet.
Cassie stands and
stares down the hall for a
moment. For a second she
turns to look at me, and I think
she’s going to say something,
but she turns around and walks
towards the man with the slit
throat on the floor, and I don’t
really mind anyway because I
feel like I’m probably going to
go to sleep again, and that
seems all right to me. Hell is a
pretty boring place, when it
comes down to it.

Chapter Thirty-Five
Silas

I try to say something, but no

words will come out. I speak in
bubbles of blood and saliva,
thick molasses, warm. I lie in
dust and rusted bits of metal
and broken glass. I can feel my
heart beating, but I can’t hear
it. I only hear footsteps…
trailing away.
The wound isn’t fatal and after
a moment I get myself up on
my feet and I’m stumbling
towards Cassie’s apartment. I
tear off part of my shirt and I
wrap it around my neck…tight
around my throat to keep my
body from bleeding out before
the blood clots. Flash of light
behind me, red and blue,
flickering. Smell of burning
paper, dry wall, plaster.
“Silas.” Cassie’s voice, several
feet in front of me. “I bagged
up the rest of the coke…uh…
are you okay?”
“Fine.” I choke, swallow
blood, spit on the floor.
“You folks looking for a way
out?” Voice from the corner,
wide black eyes staring out
through sunken wrinkled flesh.
“You look…lost.”
“Hello Goat.” Cassie says.
“Hello, Cassie.” Goat nods.
“Having a nice time?”
“Where were you, Goat? We
were looking for you earlier.”
“I’ve been…around.” Goat
says.” I would help you, but
I’m afraid it’s far too late for
that.”
“How are your flies, Goat?”
“They’re okay. Some of them
got lost in the fire.”
“Flies?” I choke.
“Try not to swat them on the
way out.” Goat says to me.
“My flies, some of them have
names.”
He disappears into one of the
apartments and I think of Pig
Pen from the peanuts comic
strip, the little kid who walked
around in a cloud of dust, filth.
He smelled like shit and was
probably ripe with diseases
and he never understood why
no one would hang out with
him, be his friend. He was just
lonely.
“Do you think Goat will be
okay?” I ask.
“Probably. He’s pretty…
resourceful.”
“He didn’t seem like someone
with hope for another day in
his eyes.”
“I guess Fish did that.” She
points at my throat, blood
streaming down my neck,
through the bundled up tee
shirt rag, like molasses.
“Yeah. You seen him?”
“Probably in his apartment.”
She shrugs. “Or maybe he flew
away.”
“How’s Kevin doing?”
“Dead.” She sighs. “Want to
help me drag him out of my
doorway?”
“Not really. But okay.”
We walk over to her apartment,
and Kevin’s body is right were
he left it. I grab at his
shoulders, Cassie gets his feet.
We drag him across the width
of the hallway like a sack of
paperweights. He drops to the
floor with a hollow thud.
Cassie walks into her
apartment, closes the door and
locks it. I’m left in the hallway,
alone, except for Kevin’s body.
I light a half smoked cigarette I
find in my pocket, take a
breath, exhale. I start walking
down the hallway. I stop at
Wilbur and Martha’s apartment
and knock on the door.
Martha’s voice through the
door: “Go away.”
“Martha. Let me in.”
“No. Leave me alone.”
I try the knob and it’s actually
unlocked. I press the door
open, despite Martha’s weight
against the door.
“Martha, get off the damn
floor. Let me in.”
Martha shifts her weight. I
walk into the apartment, close
the door behind me. The
windows are boarded up, pitch
darkness, blind.
“Why don’t you light some
candles?” I ask.
“What do you want?”
I take a breath, check my chest
for fresh blood, the rag around
my neck seems to be holding
most of the blood in.
“Where is Wilbur’s shotgun?”
I ask.
Martha makes wet sounds in
the back of her throat. “What
do you want that old thing
for?”
“No reason. An…experiment.”
“What you need a gun for?
You don’t even have the finger
for the trigger.”
“I’ll…think of something.”
“Who you gonna kill?”
“No one. I just need to…
protect myself.”
“Never met a good liar in all
my life.” She says, rising to
her feet. “Today is no
exception.”
Sounds of high heels on tiles.
“It’s right where he left it. Go
on, get it out of here.”
She hands me the little sawed
off. I hold it with both hands.
“You got ammunition for it?”
“Skunk cartridges.” She says.
“Big enough to kill whatever
need’s killin.”
I pause, take a breath. “Um.
Okay.”
“Got two slugs in it already. If
you need more than that
you’ve got better things to
worry about than trying to
work that little antique.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” She pulls
the door open and shoves me
out.
“You might want to lock the
door, you know.” I say.
“Lock’s broken. That son of a
bitch went and died before he
got his lazy ass around to
fixing it. Now fuck off.” She
slams the door shut.
I stand in the hallway with the
sawed off. My pants are soiled
and damp for some reason. My
tee shirt is torn. My throat is
cut and wrapped in dirty rags,
and I’m standing in a dark,
dilapidated hallway holding an
antique double barrel sawed
off shotgun in my hands. I
assume I’ve seen better days,
but I can’t remember any of
them. My eyes shut
involuntarily. I force them
open.
“What are you doing?” Cassie
stands at the other end of the
hallway with a flashlight in my
eyes.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask.
“Found it. Didn’t know I had
it, but…I do.”
“So. How are you holding
up?” I ask.
“Where’d you get that gun?”
“It’s Wilbur’s.”
“Why do you have it?”
“Lost the…straight razor.”
“You stole my straight razor?”
“I didn’t think you needed it.”
“It belonged to my…it
belonged to someone I knew…
a long time ago.”
“Oh. Sorry. I tried to cut Fish
with it and he threw it out the
window.” I clear my throat,
smile.
“Well…that’s probably for the
best. You’re an idiot.”
“Maybe. Do you have any
cigarettes?” I ask.
“No. I think the whole
building’s out.”
“Fuck. Urge to kill…rising.”
“Oh, shut up. I can’t believe I
danced with you.”
“It was nice though.”
“Yeah. It was, kind of.”
“You’re a good dancer.”
“You’re not.”
“What are you two doing up?”
Fish’s voice from several feet
behind me, the other end of the
hall. “Isn’t it past your
bedtimes?”
I spin around and the sawed off
goes off in my hands, firing in
his general direction. Terrible
shudder, my arms convulse,
the barrel jerks in the air, flash
of light, sound of a body
hitting the floor.
“Fuck!” Fish yells. “Ouch!”
Cassie says something behind
me, but I don’t hear what she
says. I take a couple steps
towards Fish. In the moonlight,
I can make out his figure
leaning against the wall, facing
me. His hands seem to be
empty. I keep the gun raised,
for some reason.
“Did I hit you?” I ask,
choking.
“A little.” He grunts. “Like…
caught it in my side.”
“You sound okay.”
“Fuck you.” He growls. “How
the fuck did you shoot me, you
don’t even have a trigger
finger…”
“Used my middle finger.” I
shrug. “I’m clever.”
“I’m dying…” He hisses.
“Why didn’t I kill you…
earlier?”
“Didn’t have it in you.” I say.
Cassie says something else, but
I don’t hear it, ignore it.
“Bullshit.” Fish says.
“Didn’t…. feel like it.”
“Whatever.” I take another
step. “I would feel bad, I
guess, but you killed that poor
woman to feed to your fat
daughter. That’s kind of fucked
up.”
“A good father.” Fish moans.
“Provides for his…young.”
A moment passes, a door
behind me clicks shut. I take a
deep breath, exhale.
“In a way, I can actually
respect that.” I say. “The gun
accidentally went off. But, you
know, doesn’t matter.”
“Molly was…” Fish grunts,
clears his throat. “Asleep. You
probably…woke her up. You…
fucker.”
“Yeah. Well. Sorry.”
“Don’t hurt her.” He says.
“Don’t worry.” I lower the gun
to my thigh. “I don’t want to
go anywhere near her.”
Cassie appears at my side.
“Silas, calm down.”
“What?”
“You’re not…well.”
“He cut my throat. What do
you mean I’m not well?”
“You tried to kill him, you
idiot. What did you expect him
to do?”
“I don’t know. Die?”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Yeah.”
“Hey.” Fish says. “This…you
know…really hurts.”
“You bleeding?” I ask.
“I’m gut shot.” He says. “What
the fuck do you think?”
“After a while, your own shit’s
gonna poison you.” I say.
“Yeah.” He says. “That’s what
they say.”
“Jesus.” Cassie says. “Why do
boys know stuff like this?”
“Ain’t you ever seen any…
John Wayne movies?” Fish
groans.
“Okay.” Cassie sighs. “This is
stupid. I fucking hate this
place.” She turns and walks
down the hall towards her
apartment. Sound of a door
shutting, locks.
A couple of minutes go by. It
gets pretty quiet, besides the
sounds from outside:
machines, crowds, sirens, little
bursts of scraping clutter,
mounds of whatever, falling
apart in the street.
“You know.” Fish says. “I
guess I…wouldn’t mind…if
you shot that…other
cartridge.”
“At you?”
“Yes, at me. I’m not so fond of
this pain anymore.”
“What about Molly?” I ask.
“How the fuck should I know?
You’ll take care of her, right?”
“What, like, feed her and
shit?”
“She’s got a…grandmother…
up in Oregon. Take…take her
up there, all right?”
I take a breath, pondering.
“That’s…fair.”
“Promise me.” He says.
“I promise.”
“Promise again.”
“I promise.”
“Okay.” He says.
“Yeah. Look, I have no interest
in fucking your daughter up.
She’ll be fine. Might be a
little…healthier too, you know,
after a while.”
“A father.” Fish sighs. “Does
what he can. It’s not so…
easy…sometimes. Nothing
was…very good…after
Molly’s…mother died.”
“Do you know why someone
would want to get you killed?”
I ask.
He starts to chuckle faintly. “A
hundred reasons. Don’t
worry…you’ve done the
world…a favor.”
“I just wish I could remember
who it was.”
Fish takes a breath, exhales for
an absurdly long time. For a
moment I figure he’s dead but
he starts talking again: “Are
you going to…shoot me…
again …or what?”
“I don’t know. That first one
was kind of an accident, you
know. I didn’t really mean to
do it. It just happened. So…I
don’t know. I don’t really want
to.”
“Whatever…doesn’t really…
matter. Point is…it’s not as…
easy as you thought…it would
be.”
“I don’t know about that. If
you didn’t have Molly it
wouldn’t matter.”
“Yeah.”
“I guess, all along…I kind of
thought I was the good guy.”
Fish takes a breath, coughs.
“No one is…the good guy.” He
chokes. “I’m tasting blood
now. Can’t…feel my legs.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that.”
“Yeah.” He says. “You know…
I bet it was a…woman…
wanted you to kill me.”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah. Probably…a woman.”
He says.
I drop the gun on the floor, the
sound echoes. “I’m sorry that
I’ve killed you, Fish.”
A moment passes, sounds of
wheezing, forced, shallow
breaths.
“Nah.” Fish says. “That’s
okay.”
Sound of a door opening
behind me, shutting. Cassie
appears beside me.
“Hey, Cassie.” Fish says.
“Uh. Hey, Fish. How you
feeling?”
“I’ve…been better.”
“Yeah.” Cassie says. “Here. I
brought you some cocaine.”
She steps over to him and
offers a little baggy to him.
“No, thanks.” He says.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Don’t do…drugs.”
Cassie lowers her hand. “Oh.
Okay.”
“I’ll have some.” I say.
Cassie turns to look at me. I
look at her. We stand quietly.
She walks over to me and
tosses the baggie at me. I catch
it, about two or three grams. I
open the baggie up and stick
my nose in it, start sniffing.
Cassie turns toward Fish. “Can
I get you anything?”
“Glass of water.” Fish says.
Cassie walks past me and
walks down the hallway, then
walks into her apartment and
shuts the door behind her.
“That’s a…. good woman.”
Fish says.
“Yeah. You think she likes
me?”
“Maybe not so much…
anymore.”
“Yeah. I guess I don’t blame
her for that.”
Cassie comes back with a glass
of water and offers it to Fish.
His arms move a little but his
hands don’t reach up to hold
the glass so Cassie holds it to
his lips and tilts it so he can
drink. She steps back and Fish
takes a breath.
“Thanks.” He says.
“No problem.” Cassie shrugs.
“Another…. favor.” Fish
moans.
“What?” Cassie says.
“Get…Molly. I don’t want her
to get…mixed up in some…
custody thing when…when the
cops come.”
“If they ever bother showing
up.” I say.
“Okay. I can do that.” Cassie
says, then she steps to the side
of the hallway and opens the
door to Fish’s apartment and
disappears inside.
“Molly’s…asleep.” Fish says.
I clear my throat. “Okay.”
After a moment Cassie comes
out of the apartment without
Molly.
“Silas.” She says.
“What?”
“I’m going to need your help
in here. She, uh…she weighs a
ton.”
“Three hundred pounds.” Fish
chuckles faintly, under his
breath.
I follow Cassie into the
apartment. I stub my toe on
something in the dark and limp
into Molly’s bedroom behind
Cassie.
“Jesus, it smells like shit in this
place. Bacon lady smells like
dead dog.”
“Hush.” Cassie says. “Molly’s
sleeping.”
“Why don’t we wake her up?”
“You want her to see her father
like that? It’s best if she sleeps
through all this.”
“I can’t believe she’s slept
through any of it.”
“Just help me, okay? Grab her
feet.”
“Where are the feet?”
“Come here. You’re
not even close.”
“I can’t see you.” I say. “I can’t
see anything.”
“Follow my voice.” She says.
I take a few steps, then she
grabs my hand and presses it
down on something warm,
bulbous.
“Jesus. She’s so
fucking fat.”
“Shut up.” Cassie says.
“You’re such an asshole.”
“How did you grab my
hands?” I ask. “I can’t see a
damn thing.”
“Got lucky. Now help me lift
her.”
I start pulling one of Molly’s
fat legs up.
“Both of them.” Cassie says.
“On the count of three.”
“Okay. Wait, where’s her other
leg?”
“Jesus Christ, they’re right
next to each other.”
“Okay. I got it.”
“On three.” She says. “One,
two…three.”
We pull her up out of bed and
she starts to squirm. I let go
and her feet drop on the
mattress.
“Leave me alone.” Molly
groans.
“Molly.” Cassie says. “We’ve
got to get you out of here,
okay? Your daddy wants us to
take you some where safe.”
“Bullshit.” Molly says.
“Eight year old girls say
‘bullshit’?”
“Shut up, Silas.” Cassie says.
“Molly, your father is right
outside. He’s…hurt. He wants
you to come with us, okay?”
Molly shifts her weight
around, crawling out of bed.
“Where’s daddy?” Molly
whines.
“He’s right outside…wait.”
Molly wanders out of the
bedroom, and through the
living room. We follow her out
into the hallway where she
stops in the doorway.
“Daddy?”
“Hey…little darlin.” Fish
groans.
We can’t get through the door
because Molly is blocking it.
“Molly. Move.” I say.
Cassie elbows me in the ribs,
which should feel like she’s
stabbing me because the ribs
are broken but I don’t feel
anything.
Molly stumbles into the
hallway and stands in front of
Fish. Cassie stands behind
Molly with her hands on her
shoulders. I stand in the
doorway, take a breath, tighten
the rag around my throat.
“Daddy? What’s wrong with
your body?”
“Listen to me, Darlin. I want
you to go with these people
now, okay? They’ll take care
of you.”
“But I want to stay with you.”
Fish coughs, chokes up blood,
spits on the floor. “Darlin, I’m
not going to be around
anymore. Cassie is going to
take care of you from now on.
You can go stay with your
Grandmother, if you want.”
“But why?”
“Darlin, don’t make this too
hard, okay? I’m just not going
to be around.”
Molly turns her head to look at
Cassie. “Do you have any
bacon?”
Cassie hesitates, frowns.
“That’s my girl.” Fish grins,
his eyes half shut in the pale
darkness.
“Come with me, Molly.”
Cassie says. “We’ll get you
safe, okay?”
Molly protests but Cassie
manages to lead her away,
down the hallway and into
308, Cassie’s apartment.
I sit on the floor beside Fish
and lean against the wall. His
hand fumbles in his pants
pocket and pulls out a
crumbled pack of cigarettes,
non-filters.
“Here.” He says.
I pull two out of the pack, and
light them both using his
lighter. I offer him one of them
but his hands don’t move so I
stick it in his mouth and he
nods once, inhales, blows
smoke through his nostrils.
“If things had been…
different.” I say. “We could
have been friends, I think.”
“We’re…brothers…you….
retard.” He groans, breathing
smoke. “You just don’t…
remember it.”
The building begins to shake,
sounds of machines,
destruction, demolition.
“End of…the world.” Fish
smiles.
“Wouldn’t mind it much.” I
say.
“Nah. Except for Molly. She
deserves a…good life.”
“Yeah. End for us, though, you
and me…that’d be all right.”
“End for…me.” He says. “For
sure.”
I nod, take a drag, blow smoke.
I could put my hand on his
shoulder, or shake his hand or
something but I don’t do
anything. I just sit there,
waiting for his voice to trail
off, his breath to burn out, his
heart to stop.
“Guess I’ll…die…pretty
soon.”
“Guess so. Can’t say I feel
particularly good about it.”
“Not too bad either, I bet. You
wish it was you?”
“Maybe. Probably not.”
“Then you’ve…had a good
day.”
The floorboards creak, and
shudder. Clouds of dust escape
from cracks in the walls.
Shards of glass shake free from
the window frames and scatter
around the dust and debris on
the floor. The building is
shaking itself apart.
“Finally….digging through the
rubble.” Fish moans low.
“About to be…rescued.”
“I’m sorry I shot you.” I feel
tears rolling down the contours
of my cheeks. “I don’t know
why, it just happened. Like, a
malfunction, or something.
This whole thing has been…
really fucked up.”
“You were trained well. You…
just don’t remember it.” He
groans. “Take care of her, all
right? Do that for me. And…I
forgive you.”
I grab his hand and hold onto
it.
“Molly will have a good life.”
I say. “You don’t have to worry
about that.”
“And…don’t worry about
your…memory. The stuff
you…need to know…will
come…in time. The rest is
all…bullshit…anyway.”
He doesn’t say anything after
that. A moment passes. His
hand goes limp and slips out of
my grip. Smoke escapes
through the space between his
lips. I check his pulse. He’s
gone.
I stand up, take a breath, pull
the cigarette out of his mouth
and stomp it out on the floor. I
lean down to pat his eyelids
closed but I realize they’re
already closed so I stand up
and I give him a little nod. I
stick his pack of smokes and
his lighter in my pocket and I
turn and walk down the
hallway towards Cassie’s
apartment.

Chapter Thirty-Six
Silas

Cassie’s got Molly sitting on

her couch, chewing on a piece
of sausage, staring out the
window at the sky, flashing
lights.
“Where’d that sausage come
from?” I ask.
“Silas. Shut up. The rescue
team is on their way.”
“So?”
“So, what are we going to tell
them?”
“About what?”
“About why everyone is dead.”
“The crash did it.”
“You think they’re going to
believe that? Gun shot victims,
a guy that choked to death on a
goldfish?”
“The goldfish has nothing to
do with us.”
“Shut up. It doesn’t matter.
We’re in a lot of shit. I fucking
hate this city.”
“Look, I don’t know. I don’t
know what’s going on. I
looked all through your
refrigerator earlier and I didn’t
find any fucking sausage. Now
you girls are having some sort
of sleep over and you’ve got
sausage all over the place.”
“Silas.”
“What?”
“Shut the fuck up. Seriously.
We need a plan.”
“Fuck a plan. We won’t even
have to deal with that. They’ll
help us out of the building and
put us on stretchers or
whatever and take us to the
hospital.”
“I don’t want to go to the
hospital.” Molly says, chewing
on sausage.
“I don’t want to go to the
hospital either.” Cassie says. “I
used to work at a fucking
hospital.”
“Oh, well, I want to go.” I say.
“I love it there. No, really.
Hospitals are fun. Great fun.
Better than fucking Disney
World.”
“Okay.” Cassie says. “Are you
in shock, or something?”
“Probably.” I shrug.
“Well. That’s helpful.”
Sounds of doors being kicked
in, shattering wood, foot steps.
“Shit.” Cassie says.
“You all have dirty mouths!”
Molly yells.
“Molly, shut the fuck up.” I
hiss.
“I’m telling!”
“Hello in there!” A man’s
voice from the hallway, glow
of flashlights tracing invisible
lines in the air. “Is anyone
alive in there?”
“What the fuck took you so
long?” I yell.
Cassie slugs me hard in the
shoulder. “Shut…up.” She
hisses.
Static of a walky-talky,
muffled voices. A man in a
fireman suit stands in the
doorway. “Is anyone hurt?” He
asks, his voice sounding
distant, mechanical through the
gasmask.
“Uh.” I shrug, smoking my
cigarette. “I guess so.”
“Yes, we’re fine.” Cassie says.
“We’re okay. No need for…
help, or…anything.”
“I’m going to need some
EVAC units here.” The fireman
says. “Have three gurneys
ready for us when we get
outside.”
“Son of a bitch.” Cassie hisses.
“Are you a fireman?” Molly
asks, still chewing her sausage.
“Can I play with the sirens?”
The fireman steps into the
room. “Do any of you need
assistance leaving the
building?”
“No.” I say. “We’re fine. We’ll
walk.”
“Does the…girl need
assistance?” He asks.
I look over at molly. I shrug.
“Okay, yeah. Maybe.”
The fireman steps into the
hallway and says some things
into his walky-talky and more
firemen appear in the doorway
and look at us for a moment.
“Okay. Well. I’m ready to
leave.” I start walking to the
door.
“Yeah, me too.” Cassie says,
and follows me into the
hallway.
“I want to go!” Molly yells.
She glides off the couch and
crashes into the coffee table,
starts crying. We stand in the
doorway and watch as two
firemen try to pick her up and
carry her. Eventually another
fireman assists them and they
manage to carry her down the
hallway, towards the staircase
where light is shining from
outside where all the cars, and
lights, and sirens are.
“You think they used machines
to dig all the crap out of the
way of the door?”
“Silas, have you been paying
attention to anything?”
“What?”
We’re assisted by three men in
uniforms who are standing on
the other side of the crumbled
walls to crawl over the piles of
rubble. We’re strapped to
harnesses that lower us down
to the street. Molly is strapped
to two harness and the cords
make a strained creaking
sound as they jerk her down.
We’re escorted to an
ambulance where paramedics
wander around looking for
equipment, or something. One
of them mentions something
about needing a bigger
stretcher for Molly.
To the side of the building I
can almost make out a tail fin
from a jet sticking out the side
of the building. Crowds of
uniforms, pedestrians. Traffic
has been hushed to a dead stop.
Sirens, flashing red and blue
and white lights.
A paramedic grabs me by the
shoulder and starts walking me
towards the back of a yellow
ambulance. I shove him off of
me and I grab Cassie’s arm
while the paramedics just look
at us, confused, and together
we start running across parking
lots, flashing lights, through
freshly mowed backyards, rose
gardens.
“Where are we going?”
Cassie’s voice is panicked,
stained with emotion, fear.
“Shut up, just run!”
“But why?” She asks, losing
her breath.
“I…fucking…hate…
hospitals!”
“I thought you liked
hospitals!”
We run until we don’t hear the
sirens anymore and we turn
around and we can’t see the
flashing lights anywhere. I turn
to Cassie and she looks at me,
breathing heavy, possibly in
shock.
“Wait.” She says, wheezing.
“We have to go back. We have
to get Molly.”
I grab her by the shoulders, try
to catch my breath. “It’s okay. I
can figure out what hospital
they’re taking her to. She’ll be
fine, we can go get her in the
morning.”
She leans into me, her face
pressed into my chest. She
takes deep breaths, steady,
rhythmic. She puts her arms
around me, almost weeping.

Chapter Thirty-Seven
Molly

“And then there was a

big explosion. Boom! And
there was a big plane stuck in
the building…and the stairs
were broken. Daddy took care
of me until he was dead in the
hallway and then the ugly guy
said he would take care of
me…and the lady. They’ll be
coming for me, so don’t take
too long, okay? I got places to
be, you know.”
“Little girl, you’ve
just been through a terrible
ordeal. Are you sure you don’t
want to talk to somebody?
Some one who will understand
what you’re going through?”
“Daddy said that I am
not supposed to talk to
strangers.”
“Is there any one else
we can call…a relative, or
someone?”
“Nah, daddy and me,
we travel all over the place,
everyone we knew is gone,
gone without a trace.”
“All right. You said
your name is Molly, right?”
“Yes. And this is Jo-
Jo the teddy.”
“All right. And what’s
your last name, Molly?”
“Not telling.”
“We’re just trying to
help you, Molly. If we know
your last name, we can see if
we can contact your family and
have them come down and
pick you up.”
“I told you, the ugly
man and the lady with the
pretty name are coming.”
“Are they your legal
guardians, Molly?”
“I guess so. They are
now, I think.”
“All right. And when
do you expect them to come
pick you up?”
“I don’t know. Maybe
soon. The ugly guy looked
kind of messed up so they
should come to the hospital
too. They’ll be here soon, I
think.”
“All right, Molly. You
can lie down here, if you want
to. I’ll be right next door if you
need me, all right?”
 “Okay. Oh wait, one
more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Do you have any
bacon?”
“Um. No. No bacon.
We have lollipops, though. You
want a lollipop?”
“Stick those lollipops
up your butt! I want bacon!”
“Um. Well, I can see
what I can do. I don’t think we
have any bacon here, though.”
“Fine!”
“You sure you don’t
want a lollipop, molly?”
“Up your butt!”

Chapter Thirty-Eight
Silas

Sounds of crows
singing…lullabies beneath the
surface of a frozen glass lake. I
dream in sound…smell of
cigarettes, oceans of perfume.
Flash of a hotel room
on the edge of town with a
bucket of ice, a bottle of
vodka, a compact mirror
covered in cocaine with a
straw and a tiny razor blade.
On the table by the phone and
bible, there’s a roll of black
thread and sewing needles.
“Which do you want
for the pain?” Cassie asks.
I lie back in the chair,
my stomach twisting in knots.
“A little bit of…both,
I think.” I choke, take a breath,
swallow. “But…there is no
pain.”
I watch her thread the needle
and set it on the table. She
scrapes a rail of cocaine into a
little plastic cup, then fills it
half way with vodka. She stirs
the coke in with the vodka
with a little plastic straw, then
hands it to me. I take a sip,
gasp, close my eyes, lie back. I
still don’t remember
everything before I woke up in
Cassie’s bathtub, just enough
to decide I don’t really want to
remember the rest of it
anyway.
Cassie holds the threaded
needle in her hand. I take a
deep breath and choke down
the taste of blood.
“I talked to the
hospital.” I say. “They said
Molly is fine, stable. We can
pick her up in the morning.”
“How are we going to
manage that?” She asks.
“We’re not legal guardians.”
“We’ll just have to
wing it.” I shrug. “Besides,
why would anyone but the
legal guardians try to take
home a three hundred pound
eight year old?”
“People who want to
be on talk shows.” She says.
She makes a stitch in my throat
and my body shudders.
“I’ll try to make this quick.”
She says.
“Just don’t…fuck it
up.”
“I used to be a nurse,
okay? I know what I’m doing.”
My throat gets numb,
either from the cocaine and
vodka, or from shock, but
either way I don’t feel
anything.
“You know…I saw
them pull Fish’s body out of
the building?”
“Yeah? They didn’t
just leave him there to rot
beneath the rubble?”
“No, Silas. They
brought him out on a…
stretcher.”
“Yeah.” I shrug,
flinch as she sews another
stitch into my throat.
“And…I saw his
hand…move.”
“What do you mean?”
“His hand…it
moved…on its own.” She
shudders.
“Really.”
“Like a flinch, or
something. Like he was trying
to make a fist.”
“It doesn’t matter. It
was nervous system reflexes,
muscle weirdness. It doesn’t
mean anything.”
“I wonder what
happened to Martha.” She
says, her eyes focused like a
chess player on working the
needle and thread back and
forth into my throat.
“I don’t know. Maybe she…
killed herself.”
“Why do you say
that?” She asks.
“No reason.”
I swallow the rest of the drink
she made for me and she sews
another stitch into my throat. I
pull the little rosary out of my
pocket, wrap it around my
knuckles, take a deep breath,
exhale.
“You’re lucky he
didn’t cut your jugular, or
something.” She says. “It’s
practically just a scratch,
considering what he could
have done to you.”
Smell of vinegar in
the air, rubbing alcohol. I snort
hard and I can taste blood in
my mouth.
“He knew what he
was doing.” I groan. “Luck
had…. nothing to do with it.”
Cassie sighs, pulls the needle
out, sticks it in, pulls it out,
sewing me shut. Images of rag
dolls, sewing patches into
faded blue jeans, surgery.
I watch the ceiling
sink into darkness, fill with
stars. The stars are goldfish…
drowning in the air.