She had coins for eyes. Brass coins. And though she smiled so sweetly at me, it was all I could think about. Behind her, a red sign glowed harshly in scorching neon. My poor brain ached under its intensity.

Or maybe it was because the room was spinning.

No, wait… they weren’t coins, and there was no sign. It was all black… and her eyes were glowing red, red, red…

God help me.

I woke with a jolt, slamming the bar with a heavy foot. The vacant shot glasses sprawled across the countertop jiggled at the impact.

Here I was again, at the InShot, a dingy bar with few lights and the air quality of a sunken submarine lost a hundred years beneath the sea. I sat up and wiped away the line of drool strung between my cheek and the table on my jacket sleeve.

“Just a dream.”

Behind the counter, various bottles were balanced precariously on homemade shelves once belonging to the establishment before this one. Shit. I leaned over the counter and grabbed a bottle of whiskey, pouring a shot into a dirty glass. I popped a Zentiaf pill into it for good measure. The little red and blue capsule gracefully floated down to the bottom, twirling like a tiny dancer.

“Here’s to sleep,” I said, throwing it back.

The InShot was dark, which I liked. The windows were boarded up, and above the bar hung its only light source. In dull pink and blue neon, a sign ran the length of the bar, reading: Drinks are free as long as you’re paying.

The rest of the place was small and cluttered with booths, tables, and stacks of junk; it was a mess of electronics and old-world debris. A dead jukebox saluted from the corner. Finer people wouldn't be caught dead in here, but the rats loved it.

It was empty today. The diner-style tables with the red leather booth seats, white cushion poking through holes in the ugly leather, were vacant. The bartender was in a back room, probably waiting for me to wake up.

I stretched my cranky limbs, my head spinning. What did I do last night? I tried to usher forward memories, but all I got in return was: fuck. My head was killing me. I didn’t want to move, just lay my head down on the bar again and close my eyes.

The door to the joint was solid steel, added after the fact, with rivets framing the steel edges. So when a thick black boot harshly punched it open, the door banged against the concrete walls of the bar with a thunderous crash.

I gripped my head as if that would stop the hurt, my skull throbbing and pulsing from the noise. Squealing like a stuck pig, the door swung back and forth on creaky hinges.

I already knew who it was.

A young man strode into the bar with the confidence of a bull sure that nothing could hurt him. His hair was cut harshly into a brown spiked mohawk and his grin was gapped, wide and toothy. He wore a blood red tank top and brown roughed-up pants tucked into shin-high laced boots. On his belt was a can of mace and a silver dagger with a spiny knuckle. The belt buckle was fake gold: a circle with a brass casing in the center, symbolizing his first kill.

Chuckles. He never had a real name. His mother died before she’d given him one.

“Dreamer!” Chuckles called when he saw me. Dreamer was what everyone called me.

He stomped into the bar while behind him came his gang: a group of rough youngsters, the oldest in their early twenties, including Chuckles, and the youngest sixteen. Each one of the kids was a hard-pressed little bastard. Bastards and orphans swearing and fighting and breaking things that didn’t belong to them. Shaved heads, buzz cuts, bruises, and black eyes; missing teeth from poor hygiene or poor fighting skills and they all carried blades and bats and pipes. Sometimes, even guns if they could afford them.

They stalked their leader, looking around the place with shit-kicking smiles and bad attitudes. They liked that it was empty. Most went to sit around a table near the exit to talk and relax in the dark. Unfortunately, Chuckles came over to me with that toothy smile.

“I said hey, Dreamer. You deaf or something?” I looked up from my glass finally, eyes burning red.

“Huh? Oh, hey.” He sat next to me with an abusive plop. It made the barstool squeak like a squished mouse.

Whenever I saw Chuckles, a memory always flooded back to me: I’m riding on the back of Moaner’s bike. Buildings flash by us, worn out, bombed out skyscrapers turned white by the sun. The road is dusty and dirty, lined by tall piles of garbage. The whole gang is riding with us on motorbikes or half bikes. But I never remember where we were going.

Another boy rides far ahead of us, but he’s from a different group. Couldn’t be older than eighteen. The boy’s wearing an old black biker helmet with a blue bandana tied around it.

Since I’m riding along, Moaner gets to ride shotgun to Chuckles in the formation. So Chuckles is right ahead of us, and I see him when he turns to the group and gives a devious grin. The boys and girls around me cheer him on.

Chuckles slides a heavy lead pipe out of a side bag and artfully catches up to the boy. The motors are too loud so the boy can’t hear him approaching. Before he realizes, Chuckles knocks the boy on his neck.

The boy’s neck twists and he falls off his bike. They tumble across the road together as we drift around them.

Chuckles looks back at me, grinning and howling. The others cheer and spit on the wreckage as they pass by. When I glance back, the boy is still rolling across the street until he stops. Then, he lays still in the dirt.

There was no telling why Chuckles did that to the boy. To an outsider, it would seem like random violence, and that’s common in WarZone. To those from WarZone, the boy had it coming, being caught unaware.

If you knew Chuckles though, you knew different. Anyone wearing a bandana around their helmet, arm, or leg was a ganger. No telling from which one gang in particular, but knowing Chuckle’s childhood, it didn’t matter. Everyone had a bad history in WarZone, and some evils were born from necessity.

I watched him for a moment as he laughed alongside his boys with his gapped grin. Even the dirt and grime couldn’t hide his youth. Did I look that young when I was his age?

Chuckles threw an empty bottle at one of the boys in the corner who barely ducked out of the way before it crashed somewhere in the dark. The boy gave him the finger. Chuckles gave it right back before laughing and turning back to me.

“So what’s up, Dreamer?” He asked, obnoxiously. I pulled out a clear bag of indigo pills wrapped tightly into a ball and slapped it into his hands.

“That’s a hundred,” I said, uneventfully. I checked my pockets for a cigarette and my lighter.

“Hey, Slag!” A boy picked his head up from the table and Chuckles tossed him the bag from across the room. Then, Chuckles slid out a roll of money in tight rubber bands. It looked like a stick of cinnamon. I felt him slide it into one of my pockets. Smart... It would be harder for me to spend it if I forgot where it was.

I took a drag from my cigarette. My lungs filled with sour smoke. It was exactly what I needed.

Chuckles was still sitting next to me, I realized.

“What?”

“Me and the boy’s been looking for ya. Spicers are in town again.”

Spicers were caravaners, gypsies, and nomads of the wasteland. Unlike most nomads, who traveled by foot, the spicers rode in long vehicle columns, an entire town’s worth riding side by side. And very much unlike nomads, they visited the city, bringing with them things for trade from the outside world.

There was plenty of value in a spicer’s market. Trinkets, tech from their trade routes, people, if you were into that kind of thing, but most importantly they had fresh fruits, vegetables and even animals. I wasn’t a chef, but even I knew the real stuff tasted better than that synthetic crap.

Though, what Chuckles saw as valuable in the markets had more to do with my expensive supply of Zentiaf, a sleep aid/downer, and Marizopal, a highly addictive drug used for medicinal purposes. Most people abused Marizopal as a painkiller so users would pay top dollar for that. And when the Spicers came to town, they weren’t just looking to sell trinkets.

“Market’s up already,” Chuckles continued. “We could come with you and help rustle up some customers for that high-price stuff you’re always slinging.”

“I am better off alone,” I told him, hopping off the barstool. My head was already feeling better. The medicine I’d popped was quick to alleviate my withdrawal headache.

But it didn’t help how the rest of me felt. Except for that tiny bit of sleep on the counter, which amounted to maybe half an hour, it had been a day or two since I’d slept last. Exhaustion weighed me down, and my eyes were on fire but I tried not to wipe them.

“Come on, Dreamer. Buddy. Old Pal. How about we come with you this time? You always need some muscle on these kinds of things. We don’t want the money, heh. We just wanna crack some heads.” I wasn’t in the mood. The kind of muscle they’d bring was the kind more likely to help break something than to help sell it.

“Not a chance,” I said, slipping my sunglasses down over my eyes.

I was headed for the door when the bartender came out from the back office. He was a slim guy, almost sixty, with a grayed mustache and cap worn backwards that hid his balding grey speckled head.

“Hey, Dreamer boy. Your tab’s getting pretty high,” he said with gravel in his spit. That was before he eyed the kids in his bar.

“Yeah. I’ll pay the next time I’m in.” I had no spare cash on me, which was all anyone took this far out. Credit didn’t matter in WarZone, and those with credit never came out this far on the LowDowns side. The old man mumbled something under his breath.

“Hey, old man, let me get a beer,” said one of the kids at the table. He had a bright red mohawk and chains dangling over his cut-off denim jacket.

“Let me get some money first, you little punk.”

“Come on. Open up a tab for me. I’m good for it.”

“Listen, you little brat, grow some hair on your chest and you can drink all you want. Hey, Sleeper, I’m not done with you yet.” I was already slipping through the door before I stopped dead in my tracks. My breath suddenly caught in my throat.

“What did you say?” I asked,

“I said I’m not done with you yet. You owe me for a week’s drink. We’re settling the tab right now. And take these little freaks with ya on your way out.”

“He called us freaks,” one of the boys laughed. I turned my full attention to the bartender, ignoring his demands. Even with my sunglasses on, Chuckles could tell by my body language something was off. He stiffened in his seat.

If I’d wanted it, he would’ve tossed the bar over. Shit, even if I didn’t want it, on a simple suspicion that the bartender had overstepped his mark, Chuckles and his boys would’ve left the place burnt to cinders.

But the offense wasn’t what bothered me.

“What did you call me?” I asked.

“Huh? What do you mean? I didn’t call you anything. I said your name.”

“What is it?” I spat. The boys in the corner got quiet, watching in suspense. The bartender started to sweat.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

“D-Dreamer.” My expression softened. Could have sworn... Maybe I was just hearing things.

I turned for the door, forgetting the whole thing, but the bartender shouted after me.

“You’re cut off until you pay me! You hear me, dopehead?” That’s alright. Cheap alcohol wasn’t my vice anyway.

It had been over a year since I’d heard the name Sleeper. No one else called me that. No one except…

“Hey, we’re outta here,” Chuckles interrupted, yelling to his crew as he followed me out of the InShot.

“Aw, we just got here,” a boy cried. Moaner. He definitely earned that name.

“Boss is leaving. So are we.” Boss. I ignored his comment as I found my way down the alley. Boss. I was nobody’s boss. They were just flies buzzing around my ass, following me because they had no one else.

Unlike them, I didn’t need anyone else. I’d been alone most of my life. That’s how I liked it. And I was happy that I was gonna get to live that way forever. Then these little freaks showed up.

The sunshine burned. It was barely noon and the light slipped into the alley through the gaps between highrise rooftops. So goddamn bright.

Loose trash, moist garbage, old bike parts, and boxes of scrap; it littered the alleys, so much so that I had to wade through waist high trash piles and climb over others. With drooping legs, I found my way through while behind me Chuckles and the rest followed like lost puppies.

Chuckles and the boys were deeply sunkissed, their flesh dark and tanned like cow leather. LowDowners were usually the ones pale as ghosts, but here I was, the pale one. And the old one. The kids fell in line behind me, chattering incessantly about nothing. Insults and violent talk.

“Hey, Dreamer, I heard some guys talking about Down Below today. You ever been down there?” Moaner asked.

“A couple times,” I said unenthused, stuffing my hands into the pockets of my trench coat like a pouting child. Down Below was the name for any layer below the surface. For the people up top, Down Below was a mystery. And the rumors that existed about the under levels were… unsavory.

“Really?” Tax, the red mohawked tough, asked.

“Mako, that kid from the Southers told me he went down below for bike parts...” Chuckles grabbed Moaner by the head, pulling Moaner into the pit of his arm.

“That’s bullshit. He’s lying. The only thing down below are mutants,” he said deviously. Moaner punched furiously to break away from his grip.

“No way,” one of the other kids protested.

“So, what is down there, Dreamer?” Tax asked.

“No, it’s true! I heard it was mutants and shit,” Moaner cut in.

“All kinds of evil stuff lives Down Below. Cannibals. Reavers. Even synths…” One of the boys spouted off. I never did catch that one’s name. The boys berated him for believing in fairy tales. I broke in before any more of their nonsense.

“I didn’t see anything like that. Just a bunch of old people in UnderTown.”

“What’s UnderTown?” asked Moaner.

“It’s a safe spot in WarZone.”

“Shit, I’ll believe that when I see it,” Tax said.

“Goddamn. That doesn’t seem right. It’s WarZone! Nowhere should be safe!” Chuckles let out a warcry like a maddened wolf. His gang hollered behind him in response. They were still young. Still trying to fuck life before it fucked them. Poor bastards. They didn’t know they’d been fucked at birth.

“Yeah, well, it’s a lot quieter than here,” I mumbled, rubbing my temples.

We reached the end of an alleyway. Here, the path trailed off in four different directions. The rest of the gang was waiting for us there, three more little shit-stirring youngsters: Milo, Stefi, and the youngest of the group, HillBilly, who was barely thirteen. He didn’t talk much. The adolescent was crouched in the dirt, drawing pictures in swaths of broken powdered concrete.

As soon as I approached, I caught Milo’s eye. Timidly, and to my disappointment, she joined my side as I turned the corner. Oh, great. Stefi joined in with the rest of them. Someone had to call for HillBilly to come along.

Milo walked beside me without saying anything. Women in WarZone were tough, just as tough as the men, more brutal actually. They had to be. Razor came to mind… and so did Mackenzie… Haven’t thought about her in a long time…

Milo, however, was not tough in the slightest. She could take a beating, but her fists were not made for hurting others, try as she might. I had no clue how she survived this long on the surface.

The girl’s hair was stark black, naturally shiny, but cut so roughly it looked like she stuck her head in a wood shaver. It went down to her shoulders, if straight, but as it was it poked up and out everywhere, like quills on a porcupine. She usually stuck her motorcap on to hide the fluff.

Her clothes weren’t as harsh as the other boys’, or girl’s for that matter. She wore a tan jumpsuit patched to hell, just like her bike, with black boots whose soles were wearing out. Her left eye was perpetually bruised because, as timid as she was, she was still a WarZoner. And WarZoners don’t take shit from anybody.

But still, when she spoke to me, Milo tried her best to sound as adult as possible. She stood tall, fiddled with her appearance, and tried not to sound too stupid in front of me. But her sixteen years on this earth had made her timid. Her words were unsure, and her voice shaky.

“Hey D-Dreamer.” I didn’t say anything back. She walked beside me quietly again, looking into an abandoned lobby of a dead high rise as we passed it. Its insides were stripped, ugly, and lightless. A memory of the dead.

“What are we doing today, boss?” Someone asked. Boss. There was that word again. I gritted my teeth.

“I’m going home. To get some sleep,” I addressed Chuckles. He didn’t seem bothered that I never took part in their war games.

“I thought you slept in the bar?” He said. Annoyed I was still being followed by the youngsters, I sighed.

“Yeah, but today I’m looking for a change. Figured I’d try a bed for once.” These little brats. I wish they’d get lost.

They’d been stuck to me for nearly a year now. I couldn’t tell you what attracted them to me, but for some reason they were like glue on my ass. Half of my time was spent avoiding these little heathens instead of trying to earn some money. The rest of the time, admittedly, I was piss drunk or high.

“Yeah? We can ride you to your place? You up for a ride, boys?” The group cheered, little Hillbilly making engine noises with his mouth. Poor little boy was dumber than a bag of rocks.

“You can ride with me if you want?” Milo offered with hopeful eyes.

“Can it, Milo,” Moaner said, pulling on her jumper neckline so it raised over her face. She pushed him away and fixed her collar frantically.

“Fuck off, whiner,” she snapped. Her timid, little facade broke as she seethed beside me.

“No,” I broke in, “I need a walk. Need to clear my head.” The last thing I wanted was for the little runts to know where I lived. It would happen eventually, I knew, but not today.

It saddened me, though, knowing these kids had no clue what a real home was. They roamed from place to place, sleeping under bridges and in broken highrise lobbies. I know cus that’s where I was when they found me.

I was sleeping in an ash pile in the lobby of a ruined hotel whose windows had been blown out decades ago. The building’s insides were black from soot and the smell of smoke still lingered, but that helped block the odor of rot. The color kept it dark, too.

When I first heard their bikes approaching, my heart started pumping and my head whirred with escape routes. Bikes meant gangers. My hand went to the revolver in my jacket pocket, and when the kids entered my hideout, I considered putting it to my head and pulling the trigger.

There were ten of them back then. They only came in to escape the rain, gathering around while someone started a makeshift fire. In the meantime, I stayed quiet and hidden. Even so, after a while the group quietly realized I was there.

They didn’t acknowledge me, nor I them, and that’s how it was for the day. Both sides pretended not to be scared shitless of the other; on edge and desperately unacknowledged.

Sometime in the evening, out from the thunder came the rumbling of ganger bikes, the real ones. My heart softened a bit as I watched those kids frantically struggle with their rides, trying and failing desperately to pull them into the darkest parts of the lobby. The fear in their movement and in their voices showed them for what they really were: children.

I rose up on swaying legs and together we pulled their bikes into the building. Once the rumbling passed, we sat in peace together, sharing the fire.

That act wasn’t out of the kindness of my heart, by the way. We were survivors, that’s all. Not much to steal from each other, not much to keep. In that way, we coexisted in that terrible world.

The pack still roamed from place to place to this day. I guess they felt more at home that way. It was an uncomfortable thought for a WarZoner to stay in the same spot for more than one night. I could understand that. Though I did not share the sentiment.

We turned another corner. I listened to the group spar with violent insults, my mood souring further, while we headed for the main street.

Down a side alley, I spied a crossway. These were sets of pathways, tunnels, or halls that connected buildings. They used to be access routes for employees or engineers leading to various little avenues and walkways connected throughout the high rises themselves, though now people used them for drug dens or makeshift homes. Maybe I can use that to sneak away from these little peckers.

People still lived in these buildings, in the dark places. I don’t know what kind of lives they lived or if it was peaceful here on the border. Though the only people I ever saw lived on the outside. They were rough, tanned, and hardened like they’d been living in the desert. Unlike in Warzone, however, the folks here didn’t look broken. Resilient was the word. People in WarZone were… more akin to animals.

This crossway had been long abandoned; turned into a dumping ground for excess garbage. Trash piled high, in some places taller than me, but like a faded deer path in the woods, a messy walkway had been cleared in the middle of it all: a sign that someone was living around here. Maybe I’ll skip it. Don’t want to walk into someone’s home. I guess I’ll stick with the kids for now.

Before we passed it, though, I thought I heard something strange... voices. I stopped and listened. It was a girl’s and a boy’s. It sounded like there was a struggle between them.

I peeked into the alley, searching for the source. The trash piles were stacked tight. It was hard to see anything. Despite that, after a few curious seconds my eyes began to make out two shapes lying in the trash somewhere towards the far end of the alley. They seemed to be wrestling.

The alley was stacked knee deep in scrap and garbage bags; the very middle of the alley floor was the only clear space. It wasn’t clean by any means, as waste sludge had formed in tiny puddles in the vacant spots. I decided not to waste my time trying to traverse it, especially if something gross was occurring between the two strangers. That was something I did not want to see.

I turned to continue, but then…

“Get off me,” I heard the girl whimper. I snapped back to the alley. Splashing in the sludge, feeling the ooze of the garbage soak into my socks, I rushed towards the noise, my body moving on its own.

Up ahead, I could see both of them now, a boy on top of a crying girl. Her shoes were kicking in the trash beneath him. He lifted his hand and punched her.

“Hey!” I called out, stopping involuntarily. Chuckles bumped into me. Milo looked over my shoulder.

“Stop,” the girl’s weak voice cried out. With that, I frantically broke down the alley, pushing past trash piles with savage speed. With fury in my grasp, I yanked the boy clear off the girl, tossing him to the other side of the alley.

I grabbed his skinny wrist before he could do anything else. He was fourteen, in a ragged tank top and faded black pants. He oozed the sense of WarZone; a squeamer, thieves and vagabonds from WarZone who lived off the underbelly of struggling survivors. They took what they could, like roaches, and destroyed the rest before crawling back to their WarZone hideouts.

Frantic, the boy struggled for only a moment before he noticed how much taller and older I was. Then, his face broke into fear.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted. He had no response.

“I got him,” Chuckles said, grabbing the boy’s arm. He pulled the boy to his feet and the rest of the gang grabbed and pulled him into their midst. I let it happen, unable to fully process the evil I had witnessed and was about to witness.

"So you like beating on little girls, huh?" Chuckles asked with sarcastic delight; the boy was terrified as foreign hands held him down. Chuckles pulled his knife, the point gleaming silver in the sunlight. The boy's eyes widened. "Let's give you a little taste of what you dish."

How had it all gone so wrong? Suddenly, I snapped out of my catatonia when the girl rustled around beside me.

The poor girl was barely fifteen, skinny and short. Her nose was bloodied, and her eye bruised. Her tank top was colored with palm trees. As I knelt down beside her, she wiped her nose, trying not to cry.

“You okay?” I asked, holding out my hand for her. She nodded quietly and took it, the tears finally welling up beyond her control. But as she stood, they dissipated. Tough girl.

“Go home, straight home. It’s not safe this far out. Where do you live?” She pointed up, behind me, where a set of metal stairs with a rusty bar railing rose up a floor to a thick metal door in the wall. At the top was a makeshift home made out of wrought iron. It didn’t fit the concrete waste it was built into, but looked decades old. It was too well made to be part of the original structure.

I’d heard about these. When I was a kid in WarZone, humanitarian groups would come to build permanent safety shelters. These were large metal pods or bricks with heavy doors, sealable windows, and all the affinities of a regular home. They were built wherever it was sturdy, and hidden, enough to last. This looked like one of those homes.

The girl was a ragged young kid, too poor for LowDowns, but she wasn’t some street rat like the others. A parent, or... someone, was up there caring for her. The pod was safe, but it wasn’t enough. Not this close to WarZone.

“Go home,” I said, suddenly morose about the poor girl’s chances. I’d expected her to say she was from a safe’r’ LowDowns neighborhood. And that she’d just chosen to go on a bad adventure, made a simple mistake, or got lost on her way home and that soon she’d reassure me she’d be back home safe and sound before dinner. But her home was the bad neighborhood.

It was safe inside the pod, but she’d have to leave it sometime. What happened then? She was just attacked in front of her home. It was only a matter of time before it happened again.

Ignorant to this, the girl nodded and sprinted up the steps. I watched her go with dread in my gut before she disappeared inside. Poor kid. She didn’t deserve this. She wasn’t born like us. She was just a casualty. If I could save you, I would.

Milo caught my eye when I finally turned around. The rest of the kids were off harassing the boy, but she was standing there in the alley, looking at me strangely, staring at me like she were… I don’t know, dreaming or something.

“What?” I asked flatly.

“Nothing,” she said, shaking herself out of it.

While the others were still intimidating their new toy, I used it as my chance to escape. I signaled to Milo that I was escaping by putting my finger to my lips. Then I slipped through the trash farther into the alley. I didn’t know where this path would lead, but I’d find out.