Chapter Text
Leon’s bar was directly in front of The Port, at the edge of Central Roads where most of the nightlife of Trenton was stationed. Everything ranged from gambling dens to illegal brothels, auction houses, and bars. Leon was a rich guy, a sub-owner of his drug-exporting business. The real owner wasn’t even in Trenton, somewhere safer in the Habitable Cities.
I’d helped Pax with Leon’s business because it was my only way to survive. Out here, you were in the lion's den, if you couldn’t pay your debts you would be hanging meat for a week. It was luck that made sure the lion wasn’t hungry. But that came rarely.
I had no debts, but my ties to Pax and desperation for a Red Card made me vulnerable. I was just fifteen when Leon used me to get at a buyer. By appearance, I was a little girl, harmless. His buyer didn’t notice me when I followed him into an alleyway by Tribers Ave, or when I slit his throat with a lemon slicer that I stole at the bar.
The buyer was named P. Roberts. He owned a section of the Stock Piles and was constantly selling stocks to any affluent person who stepped foot in Trenton. He taxed most of the people he sold stocks to, and for Goonies like Leon, paying Federal Stamps as an illegal broker wasn’t an option.
Leon needed him dead but it couldn’t be one of his Goonies. It had to be someone who could kill and the murder wouldn’t be traced to him—a harmless girl like me. I didn’t seem the type, no businessman or broker could point out an assassin like me. But tell that to P. Roberts. Before Leon could make me do even worse things Pax paid off his debts and we left.
But P. Robert's blood was still on my hands. And by slight chance, So was Yubbi’s.
I had walked to The Port, the docking area by the Delaware River was packed with people. Walking in the ghostly Central Roads didn’t seem right, not when Enforcers would be patrolling the areas for me. So I took the path with more of a crowd, hoping I’d be drowned out by the multitude that walked through the shops and vendors.
Unlike Tribers Ave, the poor people of Trenton—Central Roads folk—shopped at Docking Market, where most of the goods and trades had been transported from the other side of the river. Unlike most Ave’s, the Docking Market didn’t have Stamps. Since everything was local and artificially preserved, there were no tax issues, unlike what the rich folk bought on Tribers. But there was little to trade and buy here, not when most of the stocks went to Tribers and private buyers in Downtown Trenton.
Nutrition was at its lowest. Protein, dairy, and certain grains were the only forms of nutrients we could take. Things like fruits and vegetables didn’t exist anymore, their seeds no longer could be preserved or condensed in the earth—something about soil contamination. Anything made by the dirt—trees, flowers, potatoes, lettuce, carrots, you name it—was gone.
Stock Piles rationed animals, our only source of nutrients. But rationing has been a struggle for years, especially when the animal population in the world has turned into devolved carnivores—the Undeads.
I cross the street of the Docking Market. Only a few cars and trucks ran through. By Federal Law, the only people who could own vehicles were Enforcers, Stock Pile workers, and Militia men. But I remember Pierce owning a truck. He never drove it much but once in a while, he’d settle out into the nearest town to gather food or take it to the field to shoot some prey. I’d only been inside once—the day he took me.
Goods transported through the boats docked at The Port. While the river was narrow, the boats stationed were huge, spanning more than half the river. They had space to move, and with the Lower Trenton Bridge destroyed, it gave the boats the opening. Big signs of letters hung from the bridge, some had washed up to shore, laying against the rocks.
One day, while shopping, a vendor lady told me what those words used to spell out on the bridge.
TRENTON MAKES, THE WORLD TAKES.
I had ignored the lady that day, unsure of what to say. I never cared about Once World lore—or anything that took place in the past. The world had been destroyed through carnage decades ago, and I was born into the generation that had to pick up the pieces—or destroy what was left of it.
But the bridge's word was stuck in my head, and so was the message that warned everyone before things had gone to shit. Yet no one took it seriously, I saw no reason to either.
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I was in front of Leon’s bar, standing by the curve when the door opened. When I first knocked, my immediate reflex was to run right then. They’d just shoot me the moment I entered. But I stood my ground, my feet stuck to the pavement just until the double doors cracked open. One of Leon’s Goonies let me in, and I immediately spotted the pistol at his hip. The big guy sized me up, all muscle and two feet taller than me. Even with the difference in size, the man was still willing to fight if he could—in fact, he was itching for it, his hands gripping his belt, fingers grazing his weapon.
“Welcome back Lemon.”
Lemon . I’d forgotten that awful name. Ever since I’d killed P. Roberts with a lemon slicer, Leon only ever referred to me as Lemon—most of the Goonies followed along too. I wasn’t Leon’s little assassin. I was his possession, a weapon he would use whenever it benefitted him. I was glad I left before he could do anything else because truth is, I was too valuable to lose .
I ignored the man, entering the bar. Much hasn’t changed since I left. The space was still dim, eerie with its taped posters and spiky metal decor on the ceiling and wall. Red neon lights circled the walls, and a big blue sign encasing Leon’s name was hung right above the drink station. The USA flag hangs as a curtain for the establishment's only window. It was dirty and tattered, a symbol of what this country has become.
I turned right off the bar, right by the open space pool table, Goonies surrounding it. Behind them were a multitude seated on the wooden chairs and tables. I didn’t expect customers this early, but then I realized it was Leon’s Goonies all racked up in one place. Eye patches, body tattoos, pistols, daggers, rifles, the stench of blood, metal, and manly musk. Seeing all of them crawling in one place made me sick. But it also scared me shitless.
Maybe I should've just run . Pax must be dead by now.
Their glares were enough to faze me, but by the looks of it, they couldn’t touch me—they would’ve by now. Dibs must've been called to Leon already, otherwise I would’ve had a bullet in my head by now.
I feel myself being wrenched backward, the straps of my bookbag pulling against my arms. I twist my body, turning around to see a Goonie pulling the straps off me and throwing my bag against the wall into a clatter of boxes. I glared at him.
My cassette .
I fist my hands, turning around to the man who opened the door for me holding an AK47. He held the gun the other way, its safety on as he pushed the buttstock into my back. My eyes widen as I analyze its black surface. Only Enforcers have guns like those.
“Keep moving,” he says.
I hold my breath, walking past the rows of tables filled with bloodthirsty Goonies. I imagine them gunning me down right now, cutting me up to sell to the Black Market. I imagine them all fighting over what percentage they’d all get, when deep down the share would be going to Leon.
The Goonie pushed me to the back, into an open door that led up a steep staircase. As I walked up, I could no longer feel the buttstock pressing against my shoulder blades, but rather an edged point—the outline of a barrel—pressing against the back of my head. I felt a click as I took another step.
The safety was off.
I walked up the final step, catching a glimpse of the weapon pointed at me. Tackling him shouldn’t be hard. The man was all muscle, but like Yubbi, he didn’t seem all that quick. I could slip under him before he took the shot, then gouge his eyes with my finger, making a run for it once he hit the ground.
But I wouldn’t be fast enough. He’d pull the trigger the moment I moved an inch from his aim. Even if by a miracle I took him down, there were dozens of Goonies waiting to have a piece at me on the floor below. I didn’t have a chance.
I quietly averted my gaze and started walking down the narrow hall. The gun stabbed the back of my head harshly, the Goonie urging me to walk quicker. At the end of the hall was a run-down room—Leon’s office. I’ve been there many times at his beckoning. When I wasn’t with the Goonies, sweeping the bar, weighing drug bags, or counting bills, I usually attended to his basic needs like being his human chair and rug. He’d kick me around whenever he got frustrated, always saying the dull look on my face angered him. But I continued to keep that expression even when the bruises became severe. It was better hitting me than Pax.
I felt the weight lift off my shoulders when the gun wasn’t pressured into my head anymore. The Goonie grabbed me by the arm before I could think to do anything else. He slammed the door open by foot and pushed me inside.
When I entered the closed space, my eyes immediately flew to Pax. He was, unscathed, in an unfamiliar leather coat and black jeans, wearing his usual combat boots, leaning against Leon’s desk. His eyes widened when he took me in—my frantic hurried stance, thrilled with relief. Without a second's notice, I rushed to her, engulfing him in a hug so tight I heard him immediately groan. “Uri—”
I pushed him away harshly, fresh tears welling up in my eyes. “What the hell Pax! Why did you just leave me like that!?” I wanted to hit him. I wanted to hug him again. I wanted to know if this was truly real. How is he even alive? “Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened?”
He grabs my arm. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, his face is drained of any color. Did they do something? “Uri …” he starts but doesn’t peek a word after.
I get out of his grip, my eyes roaming around Leon’s office. He wasn’t here. Hardly any Goonies guarded us. We were in a small space with a circular window to my left. We can escape easily— too easily .
My eyes narrowed in confusion. “Pax, why didn’t you just wait for me?”
Pax doesn’t say anything, his eyes are on the Goonie behind us, he continues to stand against the door without a word. Pax narrowed his eyes, and I realized, since I first entered, that he wasn’t afraid of his presence and the gun—not like how I was. I turn back around. “Pax—”
“Get out.”
His voice was authoritative, reminding me of Leon when he’d order us and his Goonies around like slaves abiding by his word. He mimicked the same level of spite—of arrogance. It set me on edge.
The Goonie closed the door behind him, exiting the room by his orders. Before I could question anything, Pax goes to Leon’s desk and picks up a little machine, one I’d only ever seen Enforcers use, a handheld transceiver. He clicks on a button and speaks through it. “Send them up.”
I step back, staring back at the closed door in anxiousness. “Send who up?”
Pax puts down the transceiver, his brown eyes holding my gaze. “I didn’t want it to be this way,” he says, walking around the table.
I let out a laugh in disbelief. Is he fucking serious? “Has your brain gone fried?!” I shout. “What the fuck is going on?! You said you were in danger and I came for—”
“I told you to run!” He snaps. “I gave you a chance, and now I can’t help you. You bought it upon yourself.”
With no remorse, Pax leans against the desk—and by how comfortable he looks in this space he once hated—I realize that this is his office.
“Where's Leon,” I ask slowly. I didn’t want to hear the answer.
He smiles viciously. “Floating somewhere in the Delaware River.”
I went stoic, catching the evil glint in his eyes. “Is that a joke?”
He spits out a laugh. “You’d be surprised to see how many of his Goonies wanted him dead. With the right amount of money you could overthrow anyone—and let's just say I had a generous donor.”
Every inch of me is boiling in anger like I could burst into hot steam. My head begins to throb again, feeling it reach my chest. I was angry and confused, and I began to think—think of all the times he came home late and left the flat early. Is this what he’d been truly up to? Getting revenge, by becoming a Goonie himself?
“How could you side with the men that killed your father!”
His smile drops. “ Leon killed my father! I’d like to say we're pretty fucking even.”
I lean into the door, my chest rising and falling. “This can’t be happening,” I whisper to myself. This can’t be fucking happening .
I turn around, turning the doorknob, willing to leave but immediately still when I hear a click . I turn around to see Pax holding a gun pointed at me, his finger inches from the trigger. “Stay,” he warns. The twitch of his eyes tells me he doesn’t want to shoot—he’ll do anything but shoot. Maybe the boy I loved was still in there, he was just drowning in rage and hatred, and there was no way to pull him to the surface.
“You don’t have to do this,” I say, my hands still gripping the knob. “Just let me go. I’ll never come back to Trenton.”
Pax's hand trembles, his finger brushing the trigger, causing me to flinch. “I can’t . I already called them on you.”
“Called who?” I pleaded, hot tears falling down my cheek. “Who did you call on me?”
He takes in a breath, his eyes turning red. “I had no choice.”
“Who did you call on me?!” I demanded.
Just then, the room began to tremble, and I heard the sounds of thundering footsteps from below. Chaos erupted from the bottom floor, with the sounds of the Goonies shouting and then gunshots following right after. The shots fired right below us, causing me to fall from the impact of the floor panel splintering. Its bullet had gone through the desk, and I jumped into the nearest corner.
Pax lost balance and fell, the gun falling inches from me. Before he could rise, I bent down to reach for it, catching his attention. He gets up to fight me, running forward until I point the pistol at him. He pauses, her eyes glued to the finger inches from the trigger.
“You wouldn’t,” he says. He was frozen in place as if a single movement could cost his life.
I move up closer, the barrel just inches from his chest.
I hear loud footsteps coming from the hallway, the sounds of metallic parts brushing together in an excruciating sound. A stoic buzz filled my ear, I felt its frequency getting higher—it was coming from behind the door.
I turned around right when the door to the office broke down, Enforcers—dozens of them—had flooded the hallway behind the door. In their white tactical gear dirtied by filth and blood, they pointed their guns at me, just inches away from pulling the trigger. I heard the buzz of comms reverberating through the room, hearing one say We found her! And another shouting at me to Stand down!
In seconds, my hands move downward, pulling the trigger and hitting Pax at his side. He screamed, and I ran across the room, causing gunshots to fly everywhere. But their reaction time was too slow, the moment a bullet grazed my arm, I was already running, putting so much strength into my arms that I felt it crack as I ran into the window. Gravity had welcomed me with open arms.
I fell into a pile of snow, right onto my arm that had taken a bullet. I scream, feeling lightheaded from the pain that soured through my arm and side as I push my body over. I crawl by the wall, using it to push my body to stand. I ignore the pain and the firing of gunshots from above. I thought I could make it by the dumpster, and use it as I shield just untill the shooting stopped. I held onto my arm and ran. But a bullet grazes my ankle, and I collapse onto the ground.
I was close to The Docks, I could smell the saltwater from here, and feel the cold breeze that comes with the winter river. I hated Winter but I loved the Delaware River breeze. Pierce had taken me to Niagara Falls once, the abandoned waterway that had turned into murky water contaminated with Leeches. He told me once of its original beauty. In the Once World, it was a sight to behold, with lights that glowed under its waterway at night, and the sun glinting off its streams at day.
I wanted to die by the water. I wanted to be near something serene like that.
I looked up to see Enforcers, their vehicles surrounding the back of the bar. Unseen in their tactical headgear, they corner me with odd-looking blasters, not like any guns I’ve seen. Then I remember that I’m not like any other person. I’m an Irregular here to catch up and lock up.
“ Stand down! ” An Enforcer shouts. I hear their comms buzzing again, communication erecting through them all as a few slowly move toward me.
I let my head rest against the snow, the cold stinging. This is it. This is how it ends.
I remember my parent's limp bodies, both killed by the Undeads that civilization fears. I remembered how I ran away without saving them. Running was all I ever did. I thought coming to save Pax would change that. But I realized that there was no other way for me to survive. It was all I was good at.
I stare into the dusk of snow, my eyes blurring from the tears. Time seems to stop and I become a small particle in the alley. Suddenly I can’t feel the snow against my skin, I can't hear the sounds of the Enforcers rounding up, and my vision darkens until all I see is a barn.
I’m twelve again, standing up straight as I stared at Pierce bleeding onto the ground. My hands are fresh with blood— his blood. A scar runs through his face, and he’s laughing while in pain, hysterical as he falls onto the soil of the earth. Tears were falling down my face, my hands fisting as I stared at him in rage. “I fucking hate you!” I yelled. He continued to laugh as I yelled at him.
Once he got up, his scar still open dripping blood, he smiled at me. For the first time, Pierce feigned pride that wasn’t his own. For the first time, I showed him a strength that surpassed his own. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t a little girl. I was stronger than him—stronger than so many. And ever since that day, I hid that strength. I kept it hidden deep inside me, like a monster caged in the depths of hell.
Pierce punched me in the face right after, hard , enough to break my jaw. “Now we’re even,” he laughed.
Oddly, I laughed right after. He’d always train me until I was a pile of bones. He’d chase me into the field with a bow and arrow, telling me to block, but all I could do was run, scared of the arrow piercing my skin. All I did was cry and moan, pray to any saint that'd put me out of my misery—away from the violence he’d inflict every day.
But that day proved something to him—I didn’t just run. I fought. I knew how to fight. That power was in my blood. It was me .
When the Enforcer laid his hand on my back I screamed. I screamed so loud the energy rippled around me. I cried out into the earth, my head against the snow as I gutted my throat with my rage. I heard sounds of wood splintering, of a static buzz only heard through the crushing of an intelligent system. For once the buzz had silenced. All I heard was the breeze. The throbbing stopped.
And all I smelled was blood.
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I choked out my last sound, my eyes red as I looked up into the distance, seeing a wasteland that had torn the bar apart, and left every circling Enforcer a limp on the ground, their bodies in shreds, a pool of blood in their wait.
I turned to my left to see the Enforcer that touched me still standing. The skin of his hands had withered, his bones crumbling. His tactical gear burned off, a brutal opening going from his neck to his hip. I saw him fall onto his spilling guts, his hands still outstretched.
I shook on the ground, smelling firewood and ash.The world was drenched in blood. I looked down at my hands to see them stained with pieces of flesh that I had ripped from a person.
Memories of that night resurfaced. I began to remember the blood that stained the lemon slicer I held. I had hardly caught a glimpse of P. Roberts before I began running, blending into the crowd. But I remembered the life draining from his eyes, the final glint disappearing—a brightness I took.
I cried out, it felt like a knife to my throat just peeping a sound. I was inaudible. I could hardly breathe. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It never happened like this. I just wanted to fight for once. I didn’t want to keep running. I wanted to live. It was their lives or mine.
I looked into the wasteland of debris and bodies to see a figure coming out of the smoke. My heart stopped as the smoke around them dispersed, fading away with the scorching splintered wood on the ground. The fire of the bar blew out like a candle, each at the step of their feet.
“God, look at the mess you made here.”
I flinched at the sound of the deep voice. A male figure stands in the alley. I can’t see his face, a big black skull rivet covers his eyes. I see smoke coming from his mouth and a cigarette in his hand. His black leather coat looks strangely familiar.
When I try to move my leg, the pain from my ankle shoots up my spine and I bite my lip, a groan escaping my mouth. I couldn’t move.
As I try to crawl forward, my eyes on the bloody ground, I pause when I see the clean shine of his boots. I look forward and flinch at the devious smirk on his lips. His skin was sickeningly pale. Blonde hair cascaded down his neck, eyes pitch black, darkened by the shadow of his hat.
I remember his observing eyes, the guy I met yesterday at the PitStop.
“You…” I stutter.
He throws his cigar in the snow. “We meet again waitress.”
It was hard to speak, my heart pounded against my chest. My fingers dug into the ground as I forced my mouth to move. “What do you want from me?”
He doesn’t say anything. He shuffles his hands through the pocket of his coat, mumbling something under his breath. I couldn’t quite hear, and I realized I might’ve gone deaf.
He twists a syringe around his fingers playfully, bending down until his face is directly above my head. “Hold still.”
I use the last of my strength to fight, but he uses his elbow to pin my face to the ground. I feel the needle sting my nape, the side of my face murky with blood and snow. “ Stop ,” I whisper. I don’t think he heard me. I doubt he cared. My vision blurred as I felt the thin liquid sweep into my system.
The pain in my ankle and arm subsided, my whole body felt light, like I was a feather in a pool of water, floating on the surface. I felt my heartbeat slow, hearing its beat against my ears like a drum. Thump . Thump . Thump .
The sound reminded me of thunder. There was one night when Pierce and I ran through the field through a thunderstorm. He was quicker than me, an entire mile ahead. I thought he’d leave me on that empty field to die as the rain poured like a flood. I was a stick ready to be blown away, a bolt striking just a few feet from me.
For a moment all I heard was my heartbeat. My eyes felt underwater, everything sounded distant. The pouring rain was drowned out by the thundering beat of my own heart. Thump . Thump . Thump .
I felt close to a peaceful death that night when I could hear the sound of my heart stopping.
I hear it now. Its beat faded, my vision blackened, and my lips parted as I took in my last breath.
My lost thought was the ending lyrics of Stratosphere’s eleventh track, Inside Out.
Fall apart
From the inside out