Chapter Text
Pierce had only one memory of the Once World—a cassette player; the only tape he owned was a record of Stratosphere—Duster 1998 album. The rusty tape was the only thing I carried when I ran away from the Bad Ones—when I finally escaped from him, just like I’d dreamed of for years. But the circumstances were different. Instead of hunting me down, he helped me climb out of the narrow window of the shack and pushed me to freedom. I didn’t look back once I made it to the forest. I only had one thing in mind, survival. Just like he taught me.
Bad Ones came here and there in Buffalo. They were cruel and selfish, stocking up only for themselves and willing to kill anyone in the way. But even the Bad Ones had fears of their own. To them, the Undeads were the Bad Ones. The evolved carnivore species that had wiped out half our planet of humans and animals.
I was eleven when I first saw one, it was biting into my mother's shoulder. The scream that ripped through her throat was my last memory of her voice when I ran from the house. And my father, I saw him die on my way to the trail, his guts spread on the tracks. The image of his carved parts was my last memory of him too. Their deaths were like a flicker in my brain, not once could I pick out their faces, only in my nightmares could I see their drained bodies lacking color.
All because I didn’t look back, not once, to memorize the life I had with them.
The memory of how I let them die, eaten by the Undead, faded as quickly as the sounds of paddling rain before they turned to hail. I ran a lot. A runner down a road that leads into an endless horizon, dead bodies by each headlight.
I chose to stay in the dark, less people got hurt. That was my only chance of survival.
The snow fell against the glass. Through the skylight, I felt the breeze penetrating inside, the air cold like the brush of ice. I shudder in my thin cotton blouse. I never liked Winter, it lasted five months and stormed down unpredictably. Back when meteorologists existed, this type of weather would be global carnage. But they're all dead to predict that now.
Gold Dust plays through my ears as I brush my head in confusion. Mr. Carney, our Proportions teacher, gave us equations to complete over the evening, and I was still stuck on the first one. I hated math beyond anything, but if I didn’t pass this course I wouldn’t get my Agriculture certificate to work in the Stock Piles. I only had one exam after all, then Pax and I could leave Central Roads and live a quiet life somewhere in the Residency, maybe close to The Port if we got lucky.
I hear the PitStops door open, and I look up, taking my headphones off. Two people walk in. A couple I think. Before I can move, I’m nudged on the shoulder by Trisha before she greets the guest. Her side glare was clear enough. Clean the tables, you good-for-nothing idiot . I never thought you could say so much from just a stare. Trisha has proved the concept perfectly since I began working here. My shift began four hours ago and it was still slow, I saw no harm in doing my assignment on the counter.
Rolling my eyes I run to the cabinet and get a half-filled cleaning spray and an already dirty rag. Boss said not to waste the rags, supplies were getting too expensive nowadays, especially with the Stamps on everything.
I go to a nearby table and clean the mess the other family left. I almost barf when I see pieces of bitten pork on the floor. The least they could do is close their mouth while eating, and a tip would've been nice too.
If I don’t pass school this would be my life—cleaning tables, refilling drinks, and pumping broken toilets. I’ll be working at a low-class PitStop till I die. I couldn’t let that happen. Pax and I deserve better than that.
Rents are due today, but Boss didn't give me this week's paycheck, he says he's too busy to go to the bank, which is just bullshit because he goes to the Hot Throb almost every other day. I work after school, late nights, and help close up, but I'm never respected or given full pay for my work hours. The little runt Trisha gets more than me. I guess sucking up to Boss and offering up her dignity was enough to get her a raise. I could do the same for the sake of the money, but I didn’t have the balls for it.
I go back to the counter, letting Trisha serve the new guests. My eyes catch the man in a black leather coat walking towards me.
"Check please.” He sounded hoarse like he needed water. I nod at him, shuffling into the lower cabinets for the long brown wallet. Our PitStop was too broke even to afford proper screenings. Boss said he liked the vintage checkouts more—it was cheaper than the payout projectors the other PitStops in Trenton had. Plus, no Stamps.
The guy paying is a regular, I think. I'd seen him around, usually being served by Trisha. With his hefty leather coat that must cost more than my rent, Trisha likes to take the customers who can afford to tip heavily. He always orders the same thing: a cup of coffee, black. Whenever he spoke I caught the hint of an accent in his voice. Southern? Western? He didn’t have that Eastern drag people from an urban city had. He might’ve grown up in the outskirts, maybe a bordered territory in the Unhabitable parts—it tended to be safer there, most of the children raised coddled and protected from the outside world. Everything was destroyed during the First Raid, but with enough money, you could buy yourself peace.
When I find the wallet, I head to his table that's thankfully clean. His eyes are stuck to the glitching TV that hangs at the lower end of the dinner, his eyes glued to it. I turn to see what is so interesting, only to clench my jaw in displeasure.
Two Enforcers hold the limp body of a little boy—who couldn’t be older than ten. They dragged him down the stairs of a warehouse—the place they must've found him. Half the side of his face is bleeding, and his eyes seem lost as the camera zooms into them. Before the camera moves back to the reporting officer, I catch a glimpse of his hand, instead of flesh, its bones are cleaved by a bark-looking tissue—by the looks of it, pinchers , the claws reaching down to his thighs.
An Irregular.
I look away as the reporting officer reports the context of the situation. An Irregular trespassing in a storage factory caught sneaking food into a ventilator by the owner has been taken into custody by the GSF. There have been five Irregular catchings so far this month. Please dial the GSF line if you've witnessed or suspected any Irregular activity.
It was another announcement about an Irregular catching. With the Stock War going on with Russia, the military was obsessed with testing and controlling captured Irregulars just to send them out as cannon fodder. Have monsters fight their own battles. I cringe every time I see the advertising screenings. Join the Corps and save your Country . It was more like savage what's left of it.
"Not so fond of it aren't you?"
His voice startles me, and I look at him, caught off guard. He notes my confusion and smiles. His smile brightens his eyes and brings out his youth. His hair is so blonde I could've mistaken it for white if the PitStop's fluorescent lights were brighter. His eyes are a deep black, pale skin blushed from the cold. Not a lot of people look like him in Trenton, everyone is either brown or black, tan or olive. He couldn't be any older than I was.
"Using those devolved species as soldiers, I mean."
Retorical or not I don’t know how to reply. My mouth is dry and I'm not sure if I should speak. I rarely speak to customers, especially of his stature. Central Roads was a Black Market route so we'd gotten people from richer districts all the time. But in a scrappy PitStop like ours, none would dare to visit, let alone speak to the low lot of us.
"What? You don’t think so?” He asks this time, staring at me.
I mumble the first words that come out of my mouth. "I've never seen an Irregular."
He raises his brow. "Really?" He looks amused, almost as if he caught my lie.
I shrug. "They're a small fraction of the population."
"What about an Undead?"
"On the news, yeah."
His smile turns lopsided. “You must've lived quite a luxurious life then.”
I frown. “And you haven't?”
“I've seen things, things I'm sure you've seen too, you just don't like to talk about it.”
My lips part. I shifted in my stance, uncomfortable. "Excuse me—"
"Keep the change," he says before rising from the table. He picks up a skull rivet beside his empty mug and puts it on, its silver linings entangled with chains. He shuffles out of the booth, walking to the entrance of the PitStop without looking back. I stay at the same spot until the door closes, then I slowly take the wallet and walk back to the counter. I try to brush off the weird feeling weighing on me.
What an odd guy.
I stuff the money in the cashier register. My eyes widen at the twenty-dollar tip. Trisha will be mad that she didn't get a share from her usual, but I couldn't care less. It'll be a nice treat for Pax anyway.
My mind drifts to what he said as I look at the counter mirror.
He saw right through me.
I stare at the reflection of the counter glass. I pull my bangs to the side to see the pale mark on my forehead, a hole stuck into my flesh. Being Irregular and hiding from society isn’t exactly an advantage in this survival game. But I continued to thrive on the scraps I worked for, keeping my secret hidden from those out to get me.
The world is far from changeable, there's nothing we can do to alter the world back to normal—to what the Once World once was. If the Undead and Bad Ones don’t finish us off first then the Smog and Russians sure will. It’s only a matter of time before our cities become Inhabitable just like the rest. The reports never mention how many people die each day. A city falls. Mass murder occurs in occupied regions. The environment dwindles at every hour. None of it is mentioned, just to give us some type of false hope. They’d rather keep us content with the catching of each Irregular.
I push my bangs forward and lean myself against the counter. I put my headphones back on. Inside Out begins to play as I try to push through Carney’s equations.
xxxxxx
I entered the flat to see Pax on the floor. She looked tired, her brown curls hiding the sides of his face as he was spayed on the floor. “Goonies,” he says when I’m halfway inside.
“What?”
I drop the bag of steamed pork in my hand and make my way towards the floor. I bend down beside him, taking in the state of his frame. He was in nothing but his white tank top and blue jeans, barefoot against the cold wooden floor. “Shit Pax, what did you do?”
Goonies were gangsters with spunk, usually hidden out in old cargo warehouses and underground bars. In Trenton, Black Market trading was a big thing, it was usually when all of the Bad Ones would come together to get a buck off their victim's body parts. Drugs were another thing, import and export from cities to Stock Pile farms was a bloody but profitable business—one that Pax had gotten wrapped up in as a way to survive.
Pax shakes his head, his red eyes are visible against the darkness of the room. Goosebumps rose against his tan skin when I touched him. Our flat was cold because of the building's lack of heat. We didn’t live in anything innovative, just a brick lodge that was older than my grandfather probably was. The only heat ran through the pipes that were broken down.
When he shivered against me, I pushed him away in annoyance. “Pax, what the hell cover-up! You’re gonna get sick.”
His skin felt like a block of ice. I immediately moved to our tiny green couch and snatched the cotton blanket from the cushion. I wrapped it around his shoulders, swallowing him in the cheap piece of rag I found on the street. He sniffles into my shoulder once I hug him tightly. “What do they want now? I thought you paid your debts to Leon.”
“I did ,” he says almost defensively. “Leon said he’ll report us if we don’t start sending him cash soon. I was down a couple hundred and he threatened to send Enforcers here.”
I pulled him away, anxious when I heard Enforcers . “ What ? Do they know?”
He wipes his eyes, fatigue catching up to him. How much has he been working? “N-no, they don't, but they know we’re orphans and underage. We’ll get arrested for forged Red Cards.”
I curse under my breath, rising from the ground. I begin pacing around the room as Pax gets up to console me. I couldn’t even look at him. I wasn’t mad at him, but I’d gone and done the stupid thing of not seeing this coming. Pax was so dead-set on making quick cash that he forgot who we were dealing with—freaking Goonies . “Why did you go to them?”
“I didn’t!” He protested, followed by a sigh. “Leon’s been contacting me since we’ve left. I ignored him, thinking he’d get bored or something—I mean it's not like we were valuable or anything!”
He was wrong. Pax was a pet to Leon. But I was a lot more.
“You should’ve told me!”
“I wasn’t getting you involved!” He retorted. “This was a man-to-man deal. Money for safety and freedom.”
I scoff at the man-to-man deal . Did he not think I could handle myself? I was more than capable, I’ve proved it so many times—I’ve saved us both so many times. How could he not trust me?
I don’t bother to argue with him. “How long until the payment?”
“He wants two grand in nine days.”
Nine days. I haven't gotten my check for a month. I have my exams in two weeks. The rent is past due. Now I owe Pax’s old betting broker two grand—the price of our rent threefold. “We don’t have that type of cash.”
“I could speak to him tomorrow,” he insists, moving closer. “Goonies left a note, but Leon can’t do anything until after the payment day ends.”
I shake my head at the ridiculous thought. “Don’t be stupid, you know Leon doesn’t negotiate—”
“I bought this mess so let me clean it up.”
“And if he kills you?!” The thought of Pax dying sickened me beyond anything. After everything we’d been through I wasn’t going to let the only person I cared about die by terrorizers. Leon and his Goonies were Bad Ones in cleaner clothes. They took money from those who couldn’t afford to get caught—immigrants, orphans, anyone that the Feds were looking for to throw in the army.
We couldn’t get caught. But it was better than Pax dying.
“You have classes tomorrow,” he says. “Let me go talk to him. Offer him something better.”
“ No ,” I warned, “We’ll go together when I return.”
Before he could open her mouth, I turned away, picking up the bag that I dropped on the floor and placing it on the only table in our flat. “I’m serious Pax, please don’t do anything stupid. Just wait for me okay?”
“Uri—”
“ Stop .”
Pax’s eyes darkened at my words, but instead of asserting, he nodded his head in agreement. He grips the cotton blanket around him and walks over, engulfing me in a tight hug. “I’m sorry.”
I sigh into his neck. “It’s not your fault.” It was his father who got him into Leon’s messed-up business. He was just ten when she began illegally exporting drugs. When I met him he was broken, getting over his father's death.
It was a few years ago when I’d just made it to Trenton on foot, hungry and tired. I was knocking at Goonies' doors, at any illegal exchange market I could find. I was willing to give up my body in exchange for a forged Red Card, better than the Enforcers finding me. I couldn’t imagine what would’ve been worse, getting sent to the army, or being locked in a lab. I was both an orphan and Irregular. I was completely disposable.
Pax opened the door when I knocked on Leon's bar. When the Goonies tried to kick me out, Pax was the one who convinced Leon to let me stay. He helped me get on my feet, enroll in school, and find a job to sustain myself. My forged Red Card that he helped me make was his first act of loyalty to me. He treated me like a human when no one did. In exchange I took the hit for him all the time, it was our pact of survival.
It wasn’t his fault we were born under these circumstances. But at least we were alive and together. It was my push to survive every day.
Pax hugs me tighter again, the blanket falling off his shoulders. While pressed into me, he slides off my coat, and I let his fingers brush my skin to feel that warmth I’d been longing for since I’d last seen him.
I leave the pork on the table as we walk hand in hand to the room. His lips are still brushing kisses against my bare neck as he gently pushes me against the door.
We were Leon’s slaves for a long period, but for once, since my parent's death, since my captivity, I had a place to call home. He was the only person I could trust, so much to the point where I told him what I was. He didn’t even flinch when he saw the mark on my head for the first time. He simply smiled and kissed it, brushing away any pain.
To him, I wasn’t a monster. I wasn’t a possession. I was just Uri.
That alone was enough to keep me alive.