Blankets of light began to smother away the cold dark that had befallen the streets. A bird woke the morning stragglers, singing solemnly its morning prayers. Chirping its eager life, then its immediate cry for help as starving hands snatched it. Around them, a slow mist began to crawl, shrouding those who love the ambiguity it brings. Dangerous men lurk in the shadows, and hazardous men see the mists as an opportunity to strike while the sun is low when those who feel safe enough to breathe take their last, unfortunate wheeze.

Before anyone could strike, the city watch had begun its morning rounds. Looping and circling the more active parts of the city while the iron was hot. Pulling a wagon, they gathered those lifeless from ale and knife alike. If they ever awoke, they would find themselves in a cage of iron surrounded by sacks of flesh. Swatting flys, they would breathe corroded air, wishing they had never woken up, that they stayed asleep, that life could end without the thrashing that came with the drowning of solid ground.

Beckoning bravery, the boy awoke with fire in his step. A wound, he thought to himself as he gathered his scattered garments over each piece of the wooden floorboards. Tiptoeing, he wanted nothing more than to make a clean escape. A cough, a wink, and an upturned palm dashed those hopes.

She had awoken.

Gorgeous in the fallen rays that crept in and through the half-closed blinds, her hair was mahogany, and her lips a rosy red, highlighting those high cheekbones that had birthed her nickname: Regal Rachel, the young princess of the midnight mansion.

I wasn’t gonna run out on ya. I pay my debts.

Then pay them.

Half-heartedly, the young man who in these streets was old enough to die, so old enough to be a man, rummaged his newly adorned pant pockets for a silver bit. Finding the silver bit, holding it tightly, and then letting it go forever, he was met with a smile and a pitiful peck on the cheek. Immediately, the man felt like a boy again. How hard had he worked for that silver bit? Well, not hard at all, but the risks he took dwarfed one solemn night for a few shared moments and a hard bed lined with hay.

More Barn than Brothel, he said under his breath.

Don’t let her catch you badmouthing the place boy. Her ears are better than mine.

She said through those perfect white pairs as she smiled and went to sleep for a bit longer. Then, just before nodding off, she motioned to cut a piece beneath the hip. The man quickened and headed out the door and into the silent halls of the building's rear wing. The halls, usually bustling with life, felt still and wrong even in the crack of morning. Upon exiting the hall, he had prepared himself for shoves and glares and for the men who regret the night and take it out on those around them. In these parts, malice and men are interchangeable terms, or so the man has learned from his bottom-of-the-barrel existence.

Slow, monotonous tones played from a stylophone propped up at the end of the hall. Sitting on a stool, it steadily gave the quiet hall some semblance of life. Yet, it did just the opposite. It enhanced the silence, making one look deep down into themselves, judging everything and nothing, leaving just the soul to stare.

And the young man had many brewings deep in his core. Wishing for a change of silence, the universe gladly gave him one.

From around the corner, a cleaning girl appeared with the eyes of a frightened cat. Before she could scutter away, the man raised his hand and asked.

Gloria, where is everyone?

Teppidly, with stuttering words, she said.

They go with the mists.

Shit. A mist day? Today of all days…

Forgetting any etiquette, any decency for the floral patterns that gilded the walls, for the brass door knobs painted gold, or the shotty chandelier donated by a tycoon down on his luck, the man ran to the nearest fire escape, tap-danced his way down, and set off into the mists in the direction of a job that would surely go astray in a morning mist that guaranteed it.

***†*******†*********†*****

The core of the city struggled to support the worms that lay inside. From the wagon's perspective, the coast was clear. The buildings surrounding them had gone from dilapidated, torn down, weathered beyond repair, beyond anyone's care, to decent living, to decent and livable squaller. From the outside, an observer could conclude that no one cared anymore, or so it seemed from the core. But that was just the opposite. People did care. They cared more than ever before. What they cared about was simple: it was bone hard, and deep down in all humans' core, we wanted to survive. Survival is integral to what everyone wants. You didn’t care about your flesh, sleeve, or surroundings to survive. Someone who wishes to live doesn’t care about the state; they care about the breath and the blood that flows inside, and they want nothing more than to keep it that way.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

So the stairs have lost a few steps, the layered brick has fallen and scabbed, and the windows were shattered long ago and would be met by a brick, maybe the same brick that the wall was missing if repaired.

As their vistas became houses with tiled roofs, fences kept keen and straight, windows with glass and not on the floors or bottoms of soles of rougher men, those of the merchant caravan let out a ubiquitous sigh. One came from deep down, but most importantly, from a past written in failed rides of stolen goods and broken bones. To get ahead in this damned city of theirs, you were to get up and move before the thieves who riddled the streets could get their cut. As it was, they were “taxed” operational fees, which stole the ribs from their boars, but then to add on top of “the protection package,” well, there wouldn’t be a point in selling at that rate.

You should pack up and search for greener pastures. To do what everyone else does, to go with the flow of capital and leave, would be the exact opposite of what merchants did. If everyone with the notion of selling goods leaves, there would be an oversupply without enough demand in whatever place they all flocked to. So, they stayed for fear of the unknown markets and ruthless competition. At least here, you knew the dangers. The snake was out in the open and not lurking in the shade.

The coast is clear.

Seems so.

Damn shit is nerve-racking. There isn't enough profit in it for the unease that this brings.

Then stop while you’re ahead, Micheal.

You know I can’t

We are all in that same boat. Wishing we could stop, but we ain't got the nerve to. We ain't got that resolve that men like us need to truly get ahead. Always only a few steps in front of collapsing. On paper, a few steps seem like a mile, but in practicality, in reality: it aint shit but a trip or a fall, then death.

Haggardly, the coach driver tore his eyes away from the man speaking. It wasn’t that his words weren’t valid, but they were too true. They cut deep into himself those words had. And like any respectable man, he turned his back to the culprit, afraid to show the man that those passing words had wounded him. Like catching a falling knife, conversations between men in dire times tend to cut no matter where you catch the blade.

Rhythmically, the cobbles danced underneath the wheels of the coach, which was deceptively loaded in a way in which most of the weight was stored below, in compartments that would require time and a delicate eye, their safety net. Around them, the mist had caught up with their escape. Thick clouds touching the ground began to envelop them. Dropping their speed and flicking on the lanterns that hung like eyes on each side, they chose caution over speed.

On the wagon's butt, two men with modified rifles loaded and primed set their sights on the hazy figures around them—fellow horses, commuters, those who walk from place to place. Their fingers stayed ready, yet they remained calm. A mist is synonymous with death at the core, but they are no longer at the core. They had made it out of the storm.

Even so, they still trembled. Their breath was tattered and sporadic; they eyed one another, brother in arms, and lived and died together. Within their eyes, they spoke their wordless truths. This pay, this way of life, it wasn’t worth it.

A snag in the road caused the whole coach to rumble with a sudden fierceness. The toy men holding their western rifles bobbed like a couple of buoys in the turbulent seas of man's fractured oceans. From the outside, they all appeared to be playing a game of life. The caravan of goods, the men with their eyes set on the prize, and the two men who felt like boys who were dragged along for a bad time.

How ya feeling? Ya itching?

Always am. What about yourself?

We’ve been doing this long enough for you to know that I don’t get the shakes. The older man lied through his teeth. The other could see light as day as they spoke, and the other man's barrel swayed back and forth in some desperate motion to hide his fears.

Dont gotta lie ray.

I aint lying, boy.

Cut the boy shit, you only got two birthdays on me, if that.

Yah, yah, you got any of that shit on you?

What shit?

Dont play coy, you know it.

Thought you quit on me.

Yeah, I did and now I am quitting quitting again.

Remaining vigilant, the other man, the one younger by two solid years, reached into the breast pocket of his worn brown jacket. Fumbling around, cursing at the cold morning day, he produced a tin with no label. He popped it open with his thumb and offered its insides to the man who now smiled next to him.

Not wanting to seem desperate, the man asked a probing question.

Where’d ya get it?

It’s good shit, pure, not like that tarter sauce your cheap-ass would smuggle.

Now frowning, realizing that sometimes questions weren’t needed, Ray, the older man, took a pinch of the stuff and placed it at the bottom of his tongue. A slight hissing sound came next, one that told you the chemicals had activated, the sign that this was indeed the good stuff. Next came the lucid smile that crept up and around his face. That sensation always hits not just the spot; a lot of bad shit hits the spot, but this lousy shit hits the right place. And every time, too. That's the problem.

Shits too good, thought Ray as he began to lose himself in the ecstasy of it all.

Missed it. It takes the edge off it all, don't ya think?

I think they've gotten us addicted to thinking that, Ray. Damn, shit jumped in price three times in the last few months.

You don’t say.

Yup, you can save a lot of money by pretending to quit when offered to buy, but not when someone's got it for free.

I’ll get yah back, you know I always do. I'm good for it.

I hope so.

Keep your hopes on the job, kid.

Something moving in the mist reminded them of who they were, where they were, but more importantly: just what they held and who they were holding the shit for. Clenching his finger around the trigger, the younger man readied his sights on the shivering mist. As it grew closer, his finger inched as well. Sweat began to build on his brow as the apparition finally revealed itself.

A child, no more than six years old, walking in a town like he owned the place.

Just a kid. he sighed as his finger left the trigger.

From the shadows of the child, a rank of men swarmed in. Using the guise of the child, the opportunity was in their favor. Before the man could compose himself, the older man next to him let out a flurry of shots reminiscent of some carnival spectacle. He wasn't just Ray, but Ray, the sharpshooting cowboy. Sparks flew adjacent to the felling of foes with their war cries transmuting into ones of agony, of death, of their final hooray.

Don’t just stare, boy. Ring the damn Bell and get to sending these bastards over to the next place.

Breaking from his haze, the younger man stepped across and over, making it to the alert bell at the coach's corner. His hand stopped on its rope. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw the visage of carnage, of a calm morning turned into a storm, as if not believing it, as if wishing to be woken up from this bad dream of his.

Shit, he shouted as he rang the bell for all to hear.