I knocked three times and a series of clangs and curses erupted from inside. Eventually, the hatchway groaned open.

“Jesus Christ, kid, you look like absolute shit.”

“Nice to see you too, Frank.”

“Oh is it? It’s been so long that I thought you’d forgotten all about my old, wrinkly ass.”

“No,” I replied, stepping into his cluttered room. “I just thought that if I put it off for a while then you’d keel over before I had to see that old, wrinkly ass again.” He laughed and dragged me into a knobby hug.

“It’s good to see you, kid.” He leaned back and plucked a hair from my face.

“How long have you been growing this scraggly beard thing?”

“A while,” I replied, rubbing my cheek as I paced around his room. There were clocks everywhere. Teetering piles of wall hangers and alarms leaned against baritone grandfathers with swinging arms of gold. Plastic novelties and dutifully-restored cuckoos fought for wall space like gleaming campaign medals. Every single one was so perfectly set that each tick was greeted by a pulse that shook the entire room, an explosive heartbeat that derailed any and all trains of thought and forced you to live decidedly in the present.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” my host asked.

“I’ll take some whiskey if you’ve got it,” I answered, still struggling to cope with the

newfound immediacy of time. He chuckled and cleared away enough clocks to reveal a set of chairs and a stained wood cabinet.

“I’m sure I have at least a dozen bottles of good whiskey hidden around here

somewhere.” I felt a smile tug at my chapped lips for the first time in a very long time.

“I’m sure you do.” He handed me a mug and we sank into both our chairs and a companionable atmosphere. Frank’s breathing sounded much better than the last time I’d seen him.

“Your breathing sounds much better than the last time I saw you,” I said between sips.

“Yeah, I’ve been feeling good lately. The ticker hasn’t been throwing fits. My body’s been keeping almost all my blood on the inside.

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said.

“What about you?” Frank asked, loosening the cord on his robe.

“I’ve been…” No adjectives came to mind so I let the sentence drift alone into obscurity.

“Well what have you been doing with your time? Did the captain let you back out on patrols?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve been sleeping a lot, laying in bed when I’m not sleeping. Sometimes I go for walks through the ship. Sometimes I go eat something. That’s about it.”

“Jesus Christ,” Frank snapped. “You’re being a real Debbie Downer today, kid. What’s the matter? Did your mommy not buy you the toy you wanted? Did none of the boys ask you to prom?”

“I shot my friend in the head,” I replied.

“Yeah, I heard about that, but that was months ago, Silas. Are you going to PMS about it for the rest of your life?

“Have you ever shot your friend in the head?”

“No,” he admitted. “But I watched dozens of my friends get picked off by gooks, and even worse, I got old. You at least got to choose when you said goodbye, I had to just sit there getting fat while the rest of the boys wasted away one by one. Some of them forgot who they were, others forgot how to piss and shit outside of their own pants, until it was just me. You think you’re the only one who has ever had to go through some tough shit, kid? Have you looked around lately? Time to wake up. If you made it, what is it, nineteen years without having to shoot a single friend in the head then I’d say you’re doing pretty well.”

“I guess so.”

“What about that girl, the one who left you those pretty pansy flowers?” I shrugged.

“She’s come by my compartment a few times to ask if I wanted to go have dinner with her family but I always just pretend to not be home. I have been spending a lot of time with another girl though.”

“Oh yeah? Tell me about her.”

“She has soft black hair and is completely obsessed with me.” Frank snorted and dumped the rest of his drink down his throat before pouring another.

“If seventy seven years on this earth have taught me anything, it’s that you should never bang crazy without having a sound, rigorously-tested exit plan.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, thinking about those empty black eyes.

“How’s that little brother of yours?”

“Micah’s good. He moved up to the second grade and likes most of the new things he’s learning. He still hates history though.”

“He’s already in second grade? My god, it hasn’t really been that long since we were bunkmates, has it?” I nodded.

“Almost like it happened in a different life.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Frank said. “But still… God damn…” I reached into my pocket and pulled out my crumpled pack of cigarettes. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he grunted.

“Neither did I,” I said from behind a plume of soothing ash. We sat for a while and enjoyed the thrum of his clocks. For the first time in my life, I knew exactly what time it was. I could literally watch my life drip away one manmade unit at a time. Clocks were such depressing things, constructs of an endangered species whose lives had revolved around measuring, understanding, escaping death. Death… the very word begins with a sharp stab and then trails off into nothingness. Suddenly, I just wanted to be alone. I didn’t want to know what time it was. I didn’t want to be forced into enjoying the present. I missed my uncomfortable cot and the pointless hours I could be spending there.

“I think I’m going to go for a walk,” I stated, already rising from my chair.

“But you just got here,” Frank complained incredulously, already pouring himself a third drink.

“I know,” I said, placing my own mug on the cabinet. “I just don’t feel like talking anymore.”

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

“So you showed up just to bitch at me for a few minutes, drink my liquor, and then leave?” he asked.

“To be fair,” I replied, punctuating my sentence with a drag on my cigarette. “I didn’t drink very much of your liquor. But I promise I’ll come back tomorrow and let you bitch at me about being old for as long as you want.”

“I’m holding you to that,” he growled, standing up to see me out. “Oh! I almost forgot…” He reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a golden pocket watch. “I said I’d make you a clock, didn’t I?” I took the weighty circle in my hands and popped the lid open to reveal a clean white face with details edged in glittering quartz.

“It’s beautiful,” I said, knowing I should feel grateful.

“It certainly is,” he agreed. “So try not to break it.” I hooked the chain onto my belt, slipped the watch into my pocket, and hugged Frank as tightly as I felt his frail old body could handle.

“Thanks, Frank,” I said. He patted me on the back and then guided me out the door.

“You’re welcome, kid. Now go take a bath and find a razor, you look like a god damn hippie.” Ignoring his farewell jab, I waved and left possibly the last place where time still existed.

My cigarette, and one of its closest friends, were both consumed long before I reached my compartment. I hadn’t gone for a walk. The ship groaned, metal straining against metal, as a wave crashed against its side. There must have been heavy rainfall upriver. Or maybe the Ascension was finally starting to give in. She had been an aging vessel long before her final voyage, but now she was practically a fossil, a fragile artifact that could fall apart at any moment if handled without the utmost care. No one knew why her previous captain had tried to take an ocean cargo liner up a river, or why the entire crew had fled once her prow became lodged in the sand. Whatever the Ascension’s history, she had become a derelict refuge for those who were tired of running. I wondered whether my father had been tired of running. Had my unending pleas truly won him over, or had he secretly wanted to stay and rest his weary legs since he first laid eyes on her rusted hull? I would probably never--my door was open.

The hatchway to my compartment hung just far enough ajar for someone to slip through without making a sound. I eased it open the rest of the way, expecting to find Natalie waiting for me with hands firmly planted on hips, eyes brimming with tears as she waited to hear why I never accepted her dinner invitations. Instead, I found the girl with the black eyes perched on the foot of my cot. A contented smile tugged at her face as she brushed a lock of hair from Micah’s forehead.

“Look how soundly he sleeps, Silas, freed from his nightmares.” I immediately drew my pistol and put it to the side of her head.

“Get away from him,” I ordered. She turned and looked up at me, still playing with my brother’s hair.

“Oh, Silas, don’t be so dramatic. I’m giving him a gift, letting him dream whatever he wants to dream for most likely the first time in his life. Don’t you want your brother to get a good night’s sleep?” I clicked the safety off and tightened my finger against the trigger.

“Last chance… Step away from him now.”

“Oh alright,” she sighed, rising delicately to her bare feet. I lowered my gun and she wrapped her arms around my neck. “You need to relax a little, Silas,” she said before leaning in to kiss me.

“Next time you touch my brother without my permission I’ll pull the trigger,” I said when she was done.

“See!” she said, kissing me again. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Here, come with me.” She tugged on my hand and I allowed myself to be led out into the corridor. I looked back at Micah as we left. I’d never seen him sleep so peacefully.

“Where are we going?” I asked, holstering my pistol now that the danger had passed.

“We’re going for a walk,” she told me happily.

Her frigid hand pulled me closer and closer to the top deck, up flight after flight of creaking stairs. We passed by the mess hall and I caught a glimpse through the doorway of Phillip sitting alone. I considered stopping, but the thought of braving that horde of angry stares and venomous whispers yet again was enough to convince me that my friend would be just fine. She forced open the hatchway to the top deck and I winced as direct sunlight assaulted my eyes.

“Why does the sun have to be so damn bright all the damn time?” I grumbled.

“Because if the sun wasn’t so bright, it wouldn’t be nearly as scary when it’s taken away every night,” she said.

Something was wrong. I looked around the deck, trying to figure out what it was, and then it struck me. Why weren’t we being stopped?

“Where are the sentries?” I asked. She shrugged.

“I don’t know. Maybe they’re taking a break.”

“Maybe.” We crossed the gangplank and I felt a shiver go all the way up my spine. It had been nearly half a year since I’d last felt concrete under my boots. I dragged my feet, enjoying each uneven, gravelly step. Pebbles and bits of masonry rang against the sidewalk as I kicked them with childish glee. She led me off Riverside Avenue, deeper into the city, until crumbling buildings surrounded us on all sides. I loved the way our footsteps echoed between the walls. The way every door and window begged me to explore the darkness inside. The air felt so fresh and clean. The constant tang of metal and body odor was replaced with the sweet neutrality of dust. But just as I was becoming lost in the wonders of drab grey freedom, the city reminded me why people tried so hard to escape it.

They appeared as wraiths from a fog, slipping out from behind traffic posts, rising from piles of rubble, dropping from windows with silent grace. She continued pulling me forward as though she couldn’t see their peeling faces and blank white eyes. They began to surround us, cutting off exits at our same leisurely pace. And then the weapons fell into their hands.

I drew my pistol and wrapped my other hand around the handle of my new knife.

“Get behind me,” I said, turning my back to her so I could aim at the shrinking ring of haunters as they drew closer and closer. They brandished pipes and wooden clubs, nothing with a blade or a trigger.

“Silas…” I ignored her and continued turning in a circle, making sure none of them had an opening.

“Silas…” They were almost on top of us. I slid my knife halfway from its sheath and strained to keep my breathing even and controlled.

“Silas!”

“What?” I snapped, whipping my head around to see what she so insistently wanted. Time stopped. Behind her, sitting on the hood of an abandoned car, hunting shotgun balanced against his shoulder, he sat with his NY hat pulled low over his eyes, a sly smile splitting what was left of his lps.

“Silas,” she breathed with infinite sadness. Her hand brushed against my cheek. “I’m so sorry.” I looked down into her eyes, her pitiless, draining eyes.

“What have you done?” I asked.

Pavement crunches behind me as one of them finally drums up enough courage to strike. I pivot on my back foot and punch the haunter in the face with my pistol. The first shot chases a jumble of teeth down his throat and then the rest of my clip drops two of his friends before they can react. Another haunter crashes into my side and I turn with the impact, dropping my pistol so I can break his hold just as another swings a pipe at my skull. I duck and come up inside his guard, barely giving my knife enough time to taste the air as I transfer it from its sheath to the slot between his ribs. He backpedals off the blade, hopelessly struggling to dam the river of blood pouring down his chest. A knee smashes into my stomach. A fist catches my ear and I stumble, vision blurred.

My arm slashes blindly, every movement rewarded with a splash of red. I catch a club on my forearm and cut its owner’s throat. Blow after blow connects with my body. My knife lodges in a tangle of bowels and the bloodsoaked handle slips from my hand. A bat cracks me across the spine and I lurch forward, somehow able to drag one of the bastards with me as I fall to the ground. My fingers close around his throat and I squeeze the life from his thrashing body, blood pooling around my thumbs as I force them deeper into his flesh. His ghastly eyes bulge and a gurgle manages to escape his collapsing throat.

A titanic boom rips through the air and a ball of searing pain strikes me full in the chest, hurling me backwards onto the slick cement. All I know is blackness. I’m drowning in it, forced down by gusts of eternity, floundering until I grab hold of buoyed adrenaline and claw my way back to the surface.

I suck in a breath and blink away the darkness. A scorched bean bag is still laying on my chest, smoking slightly from its journey down a shotgun barrel. They stand around me with wolfish grins, many of them sporting fresh, gaping wounds. Their dead are piled next to me in a tangled heap. The one in the NY cap kneels down at my side, toying with something between his fingertips.

“This is a good knife,” he says. His voice is a wet rattle, as though every word must be thoroughly covered in saliva before it can be forced out of his throat.

“Thank you,” I wheeze. “It was one of my father’s favorites.” He smirks and pats me on the cheek. His hand is feverishly hot and strips of skin stick to my face when he pulls away.

“Get some sleep, little ghost,” he says, tossing a pair of handcuffs to one of his men. “You’ll need all your strength if you wish to become a lion.”