If you fuck long enough and hard enough on the floor, you end up with these scabs on your knees where they’re rubbed raw; some people call them raspberries as slang, but they don’t taste like raspberries— they taste like blood.

The room smelled of hot vinegar— when was the last time we’d bathed? She clawed at my neck, and I pushed my thumbs around her collarbone, holding her in place; it was more like we were trying kill each other. The room rocked with my heartbeat. She cawed, “Harder!” I lifted her up and staggered around the room to place her naked bottom on the dresser— I didn’t want raspberries; I was not very strong— she was just very lightweight. The dresser had a mirror, and I could see my own face pushed into her mess of hair as I bit down on her neck— my breath fogged up the glass.

She was my senior by at least twenty years, but that was the least of our worries in those fitful moments that she spun around to lean over the dresser— I remember she still had her socks on, one pink and one black. I pulled her hair and mashed her face into the mirror. Our yearning moans echoed off the walls back at us. In one last push, I slammed my hands onto her shoulders so she couldn’t get away and I couldn’t get away.

I moved to the mattress on the floor with no blankets— only a flat cotton pillow— and removed a pack of cigarettes from beside it before lighting one. She shambled to the bed and curled in next to me with us passing the smoke back and forth, ashing on the carpet.

The windows were blacked out with trash bags and newspapers; I couldn’t stand it when I’d get high and think someone might be looking in on me. I really couldn’t stand it when people fucked with me like that.

Her name was Tabby, like a cat, and she always bragged about how her dad was some high-ranking member of the KKK way back when. She didn’t talk too much. She didn’t ask too many questions. Most of the time, we’d get high and pace through the house, rearranging furniture, or jabber away about any topic for hours. She was one of the few junkies I ever met that I didn’t fight with— so that was something.

I jumped at the sound of what sounded like gunshots from outside, spilling fiery embers down the front of my bare chest. “Shit!” I moved quickly, slipping into a pair of ratty jeans before rummaging through the closet to find my dead grandpa’s 32.

“Do you need that?” she asked, seeming to regard the noise with disinterest.

“Fuck that. Someone’s outside shooting off rounds. Who the fuck do they think they are?” I found the pistol and moved to the nearest window by the dresser, pulling up a piece of tape to look outside. The trailer park was ablaze against the black night and my heart picked up. No. It was a bonfire. Shadows, people, gathered around it— they threw something in the fire and that same loud bang sounded off. I jumped. “Motherfucker.” They were throwing fireworks in the fire. Idiots.

“What is it?” asked Tabby.

“Idiots.”

“What are they doing?”

“Idiot things.”

She moved to the window, pushing her face in next to mine. “Oh. Partay!” Tabby began sifting through the mound of clothes in the closet, putting on a hot-pink tank top paired with black shorts; she slammed her feet into a pair of Reeboks. “You coming?”

“No. Fucking idiots.”

“C’mon,” she begged.

“No.” I pushed the pistol into the front waistband of my jeans, idly thinking how I might misfire and blow my dick off— before I pushed it into my back pocket.

“Whatever.” She opened the bedroom door and cool air wafted into the room as she moved through our single-wide trailer to the door by the kitchenette.

I peeked outside through the window and saw her join the mess of shadows out there, her hot-pink tank top illuminated by the glow of the fire. Pushing the tape back in place, I moved to the linoleum floor, removing a small wooden box on bronze hinges from the top of the fridge. It was our stash. I lit the blackened glass pipe and inhaled— the rush. I paced through the house with the gun in my hand, jumping at every sound, at any signifier that someone might try and break in and fuck with me. I was just waiting for it. I knew it. I knew there were conspirators. How well did I know Tabby anyway? How long had we been ‘together’? A year? Six months? My tongue wriggled restlessly in my mouth, rubbing the roof of my mouth raw— I couldn’t stop prodding it.

Feeling stuffy, I moved to the door by the kitchenette and stepped out onto the concrete slab that served as the back porch. Maybe I would join the ‘partay’. I sat on the slab, watching the fire, feeling better, feeling less on edge.

I meandered my way nearer the festivities barefoot, with the gun holstered in my back pocket, rubbing my gums so raw I tasted blood— like a raspberry of the mouth. The bonfire sat just off the gravel road running through the trailer park, bulwarked in gray cinderblocks. People passed glass jars, joints, pipes. Among the crowd sat around the bonfire was a man with a guitar, Mr. Guitar— he wore a soul patch to compliment his mustache and hair that came to his bare shoulder blades. He rattled off some acoustic pop song that sounded good in his honey voice, strangling the neck of the instrument with one hand, enthusiastically slapping its strings with the other— it really seemed he wanted to kill the inanimate object. The fireworks were gone. Mr. Guitar grew louder, and people began to dance to his songs; one couple even pulled themselves on top of an old, rusted jalopy to bounce across its hood in pounding bare feet. Just across the gravel road, nearer forested trees, a group of young men slipped into UFC gloves and drunkenly pummeled each other. The world spun and everything happened all at once.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I jumped. It was Tabby. “You came,” she said, “What took you so long? You wanna’ dance?”

I shook my head and took up on one of the plastic chairs circling the fire; I felt nauseous. I hated it when that happened; when a glass jar came my way, I swallowed from it, hoping it might make me drunk enough to forget the cold sweat.

Tabby disappeared somewhere and I watched Mr. Guitar.

And that’s when I saw him; the young man in the oversized black cowboy hat with a fanny-pack across his groin. He looked so out of place, far too clean, too young, too much like a suburban kid that found his way in a den of hyenas. But he didn’t walk that way. He didn’t seem scared— he puffed his chest out and his eyes darted over the throng of ‘partay’ goers. He divvied out plastic bags from his fanny-pack containing a glowing red substance, crystalline but otherwise foreign. People looked over the bags in wonder, hypnotized, handing him the cash so that he could skulk among them, disappearing into the shadows like a cat or a demon in moments. He came closer to me and when our eyes met briefly, I shook my head. The wooziness overtook me, and my vision went blurred. Something was wrong with that kid, and I don’t think I would’ve tried that shit even if he were above board. It glowed. It glowed red like blood. Apprehensive whispers in the night said it might be food coloring.

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I watched the heat-ghosts dance across the fire as sparks flew through them when someone tossed a log in. The people began smoking it and exhaled red dust clouds; they thought it was funny, laughing in pure moments of electric ecstasy. Perhaps it was food coloring and nothing more.

Mr. Guitar took a hit and continued playing, the tempo increasing, his vocals sounding more like an animal’s death rattle.

I swiveled my head around to catch a glimpse of the men with their UFC gloves. A skinny old man with a receding hair line took a hit from a pipe, slapped his mitted hands together and motioned for his challenger to approach. He and the other man grappled into the stony grass while spectators jeered.

I felt worse, but realized I’d never passed on the jar, so I took another hefty swig, watching the fire. Then another. And another— till there was more empty space than corn liquor.

Another hand touched me, and I looked to it, mostly expecting Tabby there, but it was that kid— the one with the oversized black cowboy hat— and he said, “Are you sure you don’t want some? I’ve got plenty. I’ll tell you what, I could even give you the first hit free. It’s something really special I’ve been working on.” His voice was older, more mature, sure of himself. It gave me the creeps.

“I’m good.”

He squeezed the skin on my shoulder in urgency. “Please. I worked very hard on it.”

“Get your goddamn hand off of me.” I flashed my pistol.

He sneered and escaped into the darkness just as another log landed on the fire.

Then I heard the most godawful scream I’ve heard in all of my life; it came from the UFC guys. I looked. There was that older man, receding hairline. He held up something like a trophy. Something I couldn’t quite make out on first glance. It looked like wet hair, shimmering against the night’s milk light. It flapped in the wind like a flag. It was a strip of chest skin; I saw unmistakable flat nipples. The man he’d torn it from writhed in the grass, pulling his fists up to hide exposed muscle from the air. “Lookit!” screeched the older man, “I got it!”

My stomach spun.

Mr. Guitar snapped the guitar in his hands, his bare chest showing the tendons around his throat stretched to the limit as he snarled— his eyes glowed yellow. “Goddamn! That’s some good shit! Woo!”

A coolness passed straight through me as I inhaled deeply, trying to scream, but unable to do so. I’d never sobered up quite as quickly as that. The older man tossed the flap of skin onto the gravel, and it stuck with a wet slap.

Finally, like a pinprick popping a balloon, a shrill woman’s scream cut through the night, and I spun to see two women in a biting struggle just beyond the fire circle. It was hard to tell with them being cut out silhouettes against the meager light, but a sick wet sound could be heard as one of their detached scalps flew through the air.

I stood, reaching for the pistol, rocketing the plastic chair to the ground. Mr. Guitar looked at me.

“Are you feeling alright?” asked Mr. Guitar.

“Am I fucking tripping?”

“Ha! Are you fucking tripping? You will be.”

I held out the pistol, his eyes met the barrel. “Don’t come any closer.”

I slowly backed away from the fire, flinching at every scream as the ‘partay’ goers were decimated. Limbs flew through the air and hung in the trees or slammed against the tin rooves of the trailers. Misted blood hung in the crowd as they killed each other. Mr. Guitar stood and followed me, calmly, never taking his eyes away from the gun barrel. My stomach knotted.

“Stay back!” I shouted.

I slammed into something hard and nearly voided my bowels on the spot— it was a wooden power line pole, and I quickly brought my attention back to Mr. Guitar. I didn’t want to be there. I could’ve stayed inside. I should’ve stayed inside. My eyes traced the yellow outlines of eyes coming to bring their focus on me and I tried to see the kid with the oversized black cowboy hat, but he was nowhere; it was his doing, it must’ve been.

Bones popped from their sockets and snapped in the jaws of those ravenous users. I felt hot angry tears on my face and my heels met the concrete slab leading to my trailer; I spun momentarily to pry the door open and disappeared inside. I moved through the rooms, being sure that every entryway was locked.

I pointed my gun at the door I’d come in through and waited. A meaty thud slapped its outside and I jumped, nearly pulling the trigger.

“Help! Open up! God open up!” It was Tabby.

I swung the door open and saw that the glowing yellow eyes were hot on her heels; she spilled in through the threshold, and I shut it back. “Did you take that red shit?”

“What?” Her hair was a mess. A strap on her tank top had been severed. “What are you talking about?”

“That red shit that was being passed around. Did you take it?” I demanded, now pointing the pistol at her.

She put up her hands, looking away from the gun. “Jesus Christ no! Don’t point that at me!”

“Okay.” I lowered the gun and that’s when I began to hear the low scraping, clawing sounds against the metal sheeting on the outside of my trailer. They were coming for us. They wanted us.

The voice of Mr. Guitar came through among their enamored cries for our flesh. “Little pig, little pig.”

“I’ve got a gun! I’ll fucking shoot through these walls if I have to!” I wanted to scare them. I wanted them to go away. I was the one that was scared.

“Do you know that’ll work?” asked Tabby.

“It should, right? It should stop anyone if you shoot them in the head.”

“Maybe.” She sat on the floor, staring at nothing. “We should run for it.”

I looked at the front door. It was possible. I didn’t own a car. Neither did she. We could run until we hit the main road. What then? Could we outrun them forever? Would they give up? Could we get help?

A plan presented itself to me.

“You’re right,” I said, “How are you feeling? You think you’re up for a jog?”

Tabby stood and pulled her feet up to her bum one at a time, stretching her legs. “I think so. We can do it. I believe we can.” She was working herself up as she shot me a quick reassuring smile.

I slipped into a pair of Vans and moved to the front door; had they gathered there too? What if I pushed the door open and they immediately fell in? I looked at the gun. I would shoot them.

My hand on the doorknob, I looked at Tabby. “Ready?”

She nodded and I pushed open the door; we ran across the winding gravel roads of the trailer park, pumping our arms and legs, pushing ourselves to the absolute limit. Tabby was fast, much faster than she appeared. I watched her back as she kicked up blue rock dust. The growls of the users behind screamed, “They’re making a run for it!” I wagered a glance over my shoulder to see the mass of shadows consume the moonlit street. I pushed on, firing off two rounds behind me. I don’t think they hit anything. Their footsteps grew closer. Their animalistic growls felt like hot breath on my neck, and I was certain that at any moment they would snap me up and I would see Tabby running, leaving me.

I ran my tongue across the roof of my mouth, tasting the hot iron of fresh blood. I wavered the 32. up and tried to aim as best I could with one eye closed— a flash of white light exploded from my hand and Tabby fell as the shot hit her in the calf. She tumbled forward immediately, sliding across the ground in a face plant.

I passed her. She screamed something indistinguishable before the wet sounds of her flesh coming apart.

I dared not look back.

I met hard road and began down it, slapping the ground with flat steps as my body urged me to give up; I ran some more into that dark night where trees hung over Scenic Road in a way that it felt that the users might spring from the recesses of knotholes in bark. The road was dead empty. The sounds of heavy breathes and footsteps behind kept me moving. They were there still— grunts and patting shoes against asphalt. I was delirious.

A pair of spotlights ahead signaled a car— I wavered toward the center line of the road, hoping to get the driver’s attention. Their splash of light illuminated the road and they slammed on their brakes as I slapped the hood and rounded the vehicle.

“What’s going on?” asked the young man behind the steering wheel through a sliver crack in the window. His eyes darted further down the road where I can only assume the horde amassed in their chase.

I pried the door open and pointed the pistol at him. “Get out! Get the fuck out right now!”

He put up his hands as I pinched the collar of his shirt and threw him to the ground. “Please don’t kill me!”

I jumped into the car and its tires squalled as I slammed on the gas. The headlights illuminated the enraged faces of the horde as I clipped one that hadn’t moved quickly enough. Peering through the rearview mirror, I saw them fall on the driver I’d left in the street.

I rounded a bend in Scenic Road, tossing the pistol in the passenger seat. Watching the road, I tried calming myself. No one would ever believe that. No one.

Among the street signs on the right side of the road, I saw the shadow of a person lingering near a speed limit sign in an oversized cowboy hat. He stopped in his trek down the road, pivoted, and nodded at me as I passed him.