The handcuffs were unlocked, the hood was pulled from my eyes, a boot kicked me forward, and I was falling…

“Ugh,” I grunted as the ground forced the air from my lungs. The dull roar became a crushing wave of sound that made it impossible to think straight. Boos and guttural taunts lashed out from thousands of throats as I pistoned my arms and rose unsteadily to my feet. Damp sand clung to my face and clothes. My eyes darted back and forth, guzzling every detail that could be pulled from the muted torchlight.

A wooden barricade surrounded me on all sides, its surface studded with spikes of varying sizes. Shapes moved in the darkness above, waving arms and hurling trash down into the sand pit as they continued to laugh at me. There were so many of them… I couldn’t begin to guess at the number, to imagine how many faces, how many pairs of eyes, were aimed directly at me at that very moment. I hadn’t known that many faces still existed. I couldn’t see any of them clearly enough to make out a single detail, so perhaps they didn’t exist. For all I knew, the darkness was completely empty and I was alone in that pit of death.

A low gong reverberated through the space and the taunting ceased. The roar settled back into an excited whisper. The hairs on the back of my neck fell as all eyes moved away from me and onto the section of wall that was slowly opening. Chains creaked and jangled as unseen pairs of sweaty arms dragged the doors apart. I stepped closer, narrowing my vision as I tried in vain to pierce the endless blackness at the opposite end of the pit. Somewhere, a drumline began to beat a wild tempo. I thought I caught a twitch of movement. I thought I heard a wet slither.

Something shiny whistled through the air and landed in front of me with a dull thud. It was a sword. It was an actual, metal, sharpened, deadly sword. A smile crept across my face as I slipped my foot underneath one of the things I’d wanted since my childhood and kicked it up into my waiting hand. I twirled the blade between my fingers with wonder, testing the balance and getting a general feel for the weapon. It was weighted slightly towards the hilt and the edge could have used a bit more attention, but overall it was a quality piece of steel.

“What do you know,” I chuckled to myself. “Maybe he really is a prophet.”

A rumble of cheers surged from the audience and my attention snapped to the… thing now emerging from the entrance. Almost a full head taller than me, his naked body was covered with gnarled barnacles and patches of pearlescent scales. One arm was decidedly human, tipped with a fist that was closed around the handle of a wickedly curving hatchet. The other was a writhing tentacle dotted with suckers. He glared at me across the sand, blank white eyes devoid of any recognizable emotion. However, judging by the amount of saliva dripping from his gaping, toothy maw, I would have guessed he was hungry.

“Hello,” I said, sliding my right foot back and holding my sword low.

He loosed a blood-curdling screech in response and rushed at me across the sand much faster than I’d thought he could. I barely had time to raise my left arm as his tentacle lashed out. Suckers latched onto my skin and loops of muscle constricted with so much force that my elbow threatened to dislocate as he wrenched my arm out of the way. I moved with the momentum, leaning just far enough to the left to avoid the hatchet that sliced through the open air where my head should have been. While he was still off-balance from his wild swing, I pulled my left arm back, dragging him towards me at the same time I stabbed my sword up into his center of mass. He screamed as the tip of my blade erupted from his back, splattering me with hot saliva before ramming his superior weight against me so that we toppled to the sand. The hole in his face lurched out like a grotesque telescope and tore a strip of flesh from my shoulder. I ground my teeth and brought both my knees up with enough force to send him off my sword and over my head.

We both rushed to our feet, blood trickling down our heaving chests. He wrapped his tentacle around the crevice my sword had left, constricting just enough to stop himself from bleeding out. And yet, his aggression was undiminished. Sparks flew and metal grated against metal as he pressed the assault with his hatchet, cleaving towards my body again and again. I parried each would-be blow with relative ease, keeping my footwork stable and my sword close so that he had no opportunity to get inside my guard. I was confused by his lack of form, the way he hacked at me relentlessly like a vengeful lumberjack whose entire family had been murdered by a falling oak tree. His breathing was already ragged from the liberal gulps he’d been taking throughout the contest.

Deciding that I should put him out of his misery before he was forced to suffer the indignity of dying tired, I leapt forward, sword held high in preparation for what was obviously a brutal overhead strike. He raised his hatched to guard, just as I knew he would. My fingers twitched and the sword flipped pommel up so I could instead drive it down through his foot, pinning him to the ground as my free hand punched him square in the face. His telescoping mouth made a grab at my throat just as I turned my full weight to the left and brought my sword arm up to grab the fleshy muscles protruding from his face. I pulled, yanking his head forward and down. He tried to bring his hatchet arm around for a panicked slice but it was too late. I wrenched my sword from his foot with my off hand and brought it around in a spectacular ark. Drops of blood rained from the edge, catching the light like a morbid blur. I envisioned exactly how it would happen. His head would come free as the momentum of my swing carried my sword all the way into the sand, his hideous body would topple over and spasm in a pool of his own blood, and it would be over.

Unfortunately, he decided to reject his fate and scrambled backwards away from my blade. Instead of coming down cleanly between his vertebrae, the edge carved through the membrane connecting his mouth to the rest of his face and thumped deep into the sand. Blood sprayed from the wound like a ruptured hose and he gurgled in terror, backpedaling frantically as hand and tentacle came together in an effort to plug the hole. I grimaced at the pulpy mess of fangs in my hand and tossed it to the sand. He was on his back now, writhing in agony as the life drained from his body. He’d dropped his hatchet as priorities shifted from killing to dying. I walked over to him, picking up his weapon as I passed, and stood over his pitiful form. He looked up at me with that same blank stare, either unwilling or unable to give me a reason to feel empathetic towards him. I tugged gently on his arm and said gently, “It’s alright. There’s nothing left to worry about.” his limbs relaxed a little and I pulled them far enough away for blood to fountain from his wound again. “It’s alright,” I repeated. “It’s all over now.” His skull gave way beneath a single blow from the hatchet. I left it lodged in his brain as I turned away.

All was quiet. They stared at me as I waited for something to happen. My blood pounded in my ears and I subconsciously counted the drops of blood dripping from my fingertips. And then they cheered. Thousands of voices ignited in unison as thousands of people leapt to their feet in disbelief. The building shook with the power of it all, an omnipresent sound that tore away my identity and made me into something more. I was at the same time one of them, one of those lucky enough to have experienced the glorious victory that had just taken place, and completely apart, the focus of their combined adoration, the bloodsoaked champion of all humanity’s barbaric desires.

Doors behind me opened and two men trudged out onto the sand, submachine guns held at the ready. One of them beckoned and I followed them out of the pit. I hadn’t been able to see a single one of their faces, but each and every one of them now knew mine.

A subtle creak made my eyes snap open. Silence… My fingers slipped off the knife hidden under my blanket. It was just the ship…

I yelped as a bag was pulled over my head and my wrists were roughly bound behind my back. My perception whirled and it took me a few moments to realize that I was being carried over someone’s shoulder. Boots clanged against stairwells. Labored breathing from above informed me that the thing my face kept smacking against was my abductor’s back. A doorway squealed and soon after I was unceremoniously dumped onto a metal floor. The bindings were removed and the bag was lifted off.

“Rise and shine,” my father sang. He paced across the secluded section of the top deck he had carried me to, stretching his arms and back with aging groans. The sun was just beginning to creep over the horizon.

“Why?” I asked simply.

“Today is a very special day,” he replied. He was excited, giddy even, as he fished around in a large sack he had apparently carried on his other shoulder.

“Why is it special?” I stood up and shook the sleep from my legs while trying fruitlessly to rub the cold from my hands.

“Because,” he answered. “Today is the day you learn one of the most important, yet least useful skills a man can learn.”

“Oh,” I said, my interest piqued. “That sounds fun.” He turned around and held out an object identical to the one he now gripped in his other hand.

“I’m sure it does,” he said with a smirk as I took it from him.

“A sword?” I asked, turning the heavy length of wood over in my hand. It had been whittled down into the rough shape of a blade with a crosspiece nailed onto both sides above the rounded handle.

“Incorrect!” he snapped. “It is a wooden replica of a sword. If it was a real sword, you’d have cut yourself half a dozen times by now.”

“Why do I need to know how to swordfight if I already know how to shoot?”

“Ahh…” he breathed. I immediately regretted asking. “Because shooting a gun is easy. It’s the simplest thing there is. Anyone can aim a fancy strip of metal and kill a man with a speeding object designed over hundreds of years to be the best at killing men. But a sword, a sword takes skill. It takes finesse, bravery, artistry, chivalry.” He stabbed his own wooden replica into the chest of an imaginary foe. “It takes a certain arrogance to square off against another man and truly believe that your life is worth more than his, that when all is said and done, when the dust settles and adrenaline has run its course, it is you that will be standing proud and he who will be standing at the gates of Hell.” He twirled around, cutting down a series of attackers with flourishes and ripostes that I’m sure looked absolutely spectacular to him. “Yes, swordfighting takes practice, form, patience, and dedication.” He turned to me and I noticed something dark lurking in his eyes.

“And that’s why I’m not going to teach you how to fight, and instead I’m going to make you learn.” Faster than I thought possible, the wooden blade in his hand lashed out and caught me across the chest. The force hurled me backwards and I crashed to the deck, tears spilling from my eyes.

“Get up!” he yelled, continuing towards me as I rolled over and clutched a hand to the pounding agony that flared across my ribs with every heartbeat. I cried out as another blow struck my lower back, knocking me down again.

“Stop it!” I wailed, vision completely obscured by tears as I experienced true pain for the first time in my life.

“I’ll stop when you make me stop,” he said from somewhere close by. I scrabbled away from the sound, dragging my own sword behind me until I felt safe enough to stand back up and wipe my eyes. He came at me again, swinging downward with terrifying force. I awkwardly lifted my sword, barely able get the weapon above my shoulders. A solid crack boomed as he easily knocked my weapon out of the way with enough force to send a jarring shock through my hands. I felt a spark of pride that I’d managed to block his attack--a spark that was immediately extinguished as his backswing connected with my cheek and snapped my head around.

“Good!” he called as I curled up into a ball on the deck and openly wept.

“Please stop…” I begged brokenly.

“Oh come on, Silas, is this how you’re going to react when a real threat comes at you with a weapon? You’re going to curl up and cry like a little bitch?” He rolled me over with his foot and knocked my sword in my direction. “You want the pain to stop? Make it stop.”

It wasn’t fair. All my friends had normal parents that let them sleep, let them live normal, childish lives. Why was I the only one who got marathon lessons in international history? Why was I the only one who was quizzed before every meal to make sure they’d earned it? A cleansing fire burned away the pain wracking my body, replacing it with cold, deep anger. Why was I the only one who got dragged out of bed and beaten with a stick? I snatched my sword up off the deck and rushed him with a defiant scream, using both hands to swing it over my shoulder directly at his smirking face. He caught the whittled blade with his free hand and struck me in the mouth with the pommel of his sword.

“What?” I screamed. “That’s cheating! If this was a real sword that would have cut all your fingers off!”

“Oh I’m sorry,” he laughed. “I thought I said that I was teaching you survival. There are no rules to survival, no right or wrong, no cheating or being a good sport. There is only killing and being killed, and right now you are definitely being killed over and over again.” I wiped away the blood trickling down my chin and attacked him again, swinging my disproportionately giant sword as best I could, wanting nothing more than to smack that mocking tone right out of his voice. He didn’t even bother blocking and instead ducked and weaved around each cut, informing me of the deficiencies in my form each time I missed. Before long, anger and wasted effort tired me out. I could barely lift my wooden sword. My head felt light and I cared less about each stinging lesson my father hammered home without remorse.

He swept out my ankles and then whipped his blade into my chest, knocking me onto my back yet again. I didn’t even bother trying to get up. With the adrenaline gone, I was just one big lump of pain. Seeing that the fight had completely drained from my body, he dropped his sword and knelt at my side.

“So, Silas,” he began. “What did you learn this morning?”

“”I learned that I have the worst dad ever…” He flicked me on the ear and asked again.

“Silas, what did you learn this morning?” I turned my head to look at him, wanting more than anything to deny him the satisfaction of a good answer. But I knew that the lesson wouldn’t end until my father got exactly the response he wanted.

“I learned that sometimes winning is impossible, but no matter what you have to try your very hardest.”

“And why is that?”

“Because trying your very hardest even though you know you’re going to a lose makes you a hero.”

“And why should you always be a hero?”

“Because heroes never die...” He clapped his hands together and then lifted me briskly onto my feet.

“Very good,” he said with what I would have sworn was genuine pride before patting me on the back. I winced as pain exploded through my chest and he clucked his tongue. “Yeah, I thought I felt a rib break a little bit ago. We’d better get you to the sick bay so Doctor Holiday can make sure there’s no permanent damage.”

“Can I have some breakfast first?” I asked, suddenly realizing how ravenous I was. He crossed his arms and pondered it for several seconds before shaking his head.

“No I don’t think so. Sorry, Silas, but failure won’t be rewarded no matter how expected it was.”

“Alright…” I sighed.

“But you never know,” he said with far more cheer than I cared to hear. “Mrs. Turner might give you one of those little suckers.”

“That’s true,” I replied.

The next morning my hatch opened with a creak and my father readied his cloth bag and wrist bindings. As soon as he stepped into the compartment, I jumped out and rammed the wooden tip of my sword into his kidney as hard as I could. He was so happy that he declared the day’s lesson over and brought me breakfast from the mess hall so I could enjoy it in bed while he went to tell his peers how successful his training regimen was. That’s how it began. Several times a week, the days randomly chosen at my father’s whim, I was thrust into the fires of education to be hammered and beaten into a killer. Sometimes we would square off on the deck, trading attacks in a one-sided duel that nearly always left me barely able to walk.

More often though I would be woken up by the word “go” and forced into a frightening game of cat and mouse. It was during those long hours that I learned the most--mastering the art of nearly silent movement, training my muscles to hold completely still no matter how much they protested, using the environment to my advantage. I developed a newfound respect for prey animals. When he found me, my father was ruthless in his tutoring. Our hide and seek sessions often ended with me grinding my teeth as Doctor Holiday popped one of my joints back into place or stitched together the wounds inflicted by my father’s increasingly sharpened sword. He narrowed the edge slowly, over the course of several years, until it was more than sharp enough to pierce my heart if I made one mistake too many. But as the danger of serious injury grew, so did my determination to not be found, until I could spend days stalking the Ascension with my father’s singsong voice at my heels long before many of my friends had reached puberty.

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The physical training came with a hefty increase in his paternal dogma. He spent hours impressing upon me that I was his last chance to make a difference in the world. He repeated again and again that he’d tried to make it a better place, that he’d tried to make it all okay. But now I was all he had to offer.

“You are my gift to humanity, Silas. You are an extension of my beneficent will, and through your victories I will be made immortal. I push you to your limits because you need to be the best. Remember that when you stand triumphant. Remember that everything you accomplish is because of me, and thus they are my accomplishments as well. I wasn’t good enough to save the world, but you will be. You have to be.”

They took my hair with a straight razor as soon as I woke up. We were still close enough to the ambush site for me to smell the blood of those I’d killed. The one in the NY cap crouched in front of me as one of his men scraped the blade against my scalp. I flinched each time he misjudged the angle and sliced off a thin patch of skin.

“I assume you didn’t sacrifice more than half your group for my pretty hair,” I finally said.

“No,” the leader laughed. “I’ve just found that my buyers like their wares to be as uniform as possible.” He looked at me critically for a while before continuing. “I have to admit, little ghost, you’ve made this venture more expensive than I would have liked. Good men are hard to replace.”

“Forgive me if I don’t seem too broken up over it.” I lifted my chin towards the shotgun cradled in his arms like a sleeping infant. “So what exactly was that you popped me with?” A wide smile stretched his lips too far and an oily pus leaked down his chin.

“Oh you liked that, did you? Yeah, ol’ Petunia here is one of the few guns whose bark is a little worse than her bite.”

“She still bites like a bitch,” I informed him.

“A beanbag fired at roughly the same velocity as a cloud of buck shot will still jack you up pretty good,” he agreed. “But no serious harm done, right? I need you in top shape when we get home.”

“And where is home exactly?” I asked.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he answered ominously. The showmanship felt forced.

“You mentioned buyers,” I said, trying to keep the conversation going so I had at least some small distraction from the irritation scraping across my head.

“Don’t worry about it for now. Just relax and enjoy the fresh air while you can. We have a long journey still ahead of us.”

“I’m guessing you’re a slave trader. I’ve killed a couple slave traders. You don’t look the part nearly as much as any of them did.”

“I’m not a slave trader,” he snapped. Clearly it was a sore subject. “I’m a talent scout, one of the best in the empire.”

“The empire?”

“I said don’t worry about it for now…” He stood and motioned for the one butchering my hair to hurry up.

“Do I at least get to know your name?” I asked. “You can’t go through so much trouble just to meet me and then not introduce yourself.”

“You don’t need to know my name.”

“Well, in that case, I’m going to call you Ugly Bastard. How does that sound, Ugly Bastard? I think it has a nice ring to it. How has your day been, Ugly Bastard?” His knuckles turned white against the shotgun and his expression noticeably soured,

“Just call me Tippu.”

“Okay,” I replied with a calculated smile. “Hello, Tippu, I’m Si-”

“I know exactly who you are, little ghost,” he interrupted.

“Why do you call me that?” I asked. He cocked his head slightly to the side and gazed at me with extreme interest. Before he could explain himself though, his subordinate wiped the blood and clumps of hair off of my scalp with a putrid rag and gave Tippu a thumbs up.

“Alright!” he called out, adjusting his dark blue hat. “Everyone pee now because we’re not stopping until nightfall.”

Once everyone’s bladder was empty, including mine now that they’d moved my cuffed hands to the front, we set off at a brisk pace in the exact opposite direction of the river. Five of them, including Tippu, were all that remained of their hunting pack. I didn’t know how many corpses we were leaving behind, but judging by the fearful glances occasionally being cast in my direction, it was more than five.

Tippu led the way, the curved bill of his hat sweeping back and forth as he scanned the surrounding buildings. The one who’d taken my hair, the one with a line of bony ridges that ran from his brow to the bottom of his spine, tugged me along with a rope leash tied to my handcuffs. Two of them stuck close together and whispered a conversation made entirely of puns that I was pretty sure they didn’t think anyone else could hear. There was a familiarity to the way they interacted that made it obvious they were related. The final “talent scout assistant” walked several paces to my left and never took his eyes off me. He slapped the head of an enormous wrench against his palm as we walked, making it pointedly clear what would happen if I tried anything suspicious. Other than having a haughty disposition, his only defining attribute was an old leather jacket with a wolf head design embroidered on the back that I examined each time he turned to spit on the street.

True to their word, my captors were still moving at the same deliberate pace as the air began to cool and the sun began to droop. Twice we slowed down at the edge of muddy pools just long enough for everyone to tip a handful of water down their throat. At first, I declined, but when Ridgeback yanked on my leash and threatened to let Mr. Biker Jacket break my hands with his handy dandy wrench, I sucked it up and did as I was told. It tasted even worse than it looked.

I asked for a bite of food to soak up the aftertaste but was told they didn’t carry any. I’d always considered the Ascension scavenging corps to be akin to old world special forces, minimalist commandos who could travel unseen into the most hostile environments and emerge carrying the lifeblood of our community. But after one day with the haunters I was beginning to feel decidedly amateur. Yes, I was a far better fighter than they were, but as far as sheer survival skills were concerned, I might as well have been a Boy Scout tagging along with a squad of Navy SEALs.

They carried nothing except their weapons. They swerved from shadow to shadow, cutting down their time in direct sunlight as much as possible to prevent the maximum amount of water loss from sweat. As I’d noted before, their pace was swift but highly controlled, each step seeming almost mechanical so that not a single calorie was wasted. My ego sagged. Despite everything I’d previously thought, the city was not my home, it was theirs. They laughed every time I twitched at a falling rock or distant screech and didn’t even bother looking at the advertisements and architecture I found endlessly fascinating, like a family who’s lived in the same house for so long they forget the painting of a sailboat in their living room until a guest asks about it. I missed Pavel. Walking through endless desolation was boring, and more than a little depressing, without someone to talk to.

When we finally did stop for the night, long after it was too dark to see each other, let alone where we were going, Tippu tied the end of my leash to a lamp post and ordered one of the brothers to take first watch. Soon, it was just me and him, alone together amongst the sleeping bodies of his comrades. He sat close enough to both see and hear my every movement. His white eyes hung unwavering in the sea of black. I tried to look anywhere but directly at him. Not only did his eyes give me the heeby jeebies, but his breath smelled distinctly of puddle water and rotten meat. Hours passed. I managed to nod off once or twice. His breathing seemed to get louder and more intrusive as time went on. And then his shift ended and his brother came over.

He too sat awkwardly close. His breath also smelled of puddle water and rotten meat. And after multiple hours of further silence, I’d already abandoned myself to another boring chunk of my life I would never get back when the evening took a turn for the conversational.

“Hey,” my guard whispered, looking back over his shoulder to make sure no one else was awake enough to berate him for making noise.

“What?” I whispered back.

“Can you see all the colors?”

“What?” I repeated, completely taken aback at his question.

“Johnny told me that coloreds can only see the different shades of the color they have.”

“...What?” He pointed to his eye and then pointed at my eye.

“You’re a colored. I’m not.” I couldn’t help but smile at his childish naivete. Apparently, even after the end of the world, human beings could still find plenty of ways to racially profile each other.

“No,” I replied with a chuckle. “That’s not how it works. I promise I can see all the colors.”

“Oh…” he said. “Well then is grey your favorite color?”

“No.”

“Then why did you pick grey as your color?”

“I… I didn’t pick grey. You don’t pick what color your eyes are, it’s decided by genetics. Traits are passed down from parents to children and one of those traits is what color your eyes are.”

“Huh,” he said, leaning back on his haunches as he re-evaluated his understanding of the world. “Both my parents’ eyes are white. Is that why my eyes are white?”

“I think it’s a little more complicated than genetics in your case, but yeah, something like that.”

“You’re the first colored I’ve ever met.”

“Clearly…” We devolved into silence for a while as we both pondered what we’d learned about the other. “You mentioned a Johnny, is that your brother?”

“Yeah, that’s him. My mom always said he was three minutes older and three years smarter than me.”

“Well that’s a little harsh,” I replied, ignoring the irony inherent to my statement. “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s your name?”

“B. Goode.”

“Well hello, B. Goode, I’m Si-”

“I don’t need to know your name, little ghost,” he said. “In fact, it’s better if none of us know. It makes it easier.”

“Well, can you at least tell me where we’re going? What’s going to happen when we get there? Even knowing when we’ll get there would make me feel better.” His eyes flicked to the ground and I knew that I’d made some progress.

“First, I have a question to ask you,” he said.

“Shoot.”

“What would you do if I took your handcuffs off right now?” I thought about it for a moment, my head cocked slightly to the side as I played through various scenarios in my head.

“I would grab that bat from you, bash your skull in, break Tippu’s hand before he has a chance to blast me with another god damn bean bag, bash his skull in like I did yours, take my knife from his belt, use it to kill the rest of you, and then find my way home. Yeah… That sounds about right.” He nodded.

“Well thanks for being honest. Honestly, I’m not supposed to tell you where we’re going.”

“What happens when I get there?”

“You either become a lion or you die.”

“Alright, that wasn’t the most cryptic shit ever or anything,” I replied with the least amount of sarcasm possible. “How long until we get to this place you can’t tell me about where I’m apparently going to spontaneously transform into a giant cat?”

“We should be there by tomorrow night.”

“That’s impossible,” I shot back. “I’ve patrolled this area for years and there’s nothing out here except the scraps we didn’t think were worth bringing home.” He smiled and rubbed his hands together, though whether it was to ward off the chilling wind or out of anticipation I couldn’t say.

“Life’s full of surprises, little ghost.”

“Why does everyone keep calling me that?” I snapped. An exasperated groan exploded from somewhere in the darkness and someone staggered over to where B. Goode and I sat. Without warning, a filthy rag was shoved in my mouth and an even filthier rag was tied around my head to hold it in place.

“That’s enough of that god damn racket,” Tippu grumbled as he settled back down on his clump of mossy concrete. I glared into the darkness where I thought his back would be, silently informing him that a please would have sufficed.

“Sorry,” B. Goode said with a shrug. “He’s kind of an asshole when he’s tired.”

“I heard that,” Tippu barked.

“You were supposed to,” he called back with a smile. “Well,” He continued, turning back to me as he brushed the dirt off what remained of his pants. “My shift is just about over. Get some sleep, little ghost. You’re going to need it.”

We rose with the sun and continued our march into the city. I was still able to match the buildings we’d passed to the crude maps we carried out on patrol. Tommy’s Auto Emporium was a graveyard for car parts that hung from the walls and ceiling like an industrial butcher shop. A pair of retail giants squared off across a four lane avenue like sumo wrestlers who’d collapsed under the weight of their sweaty rolls. The movie theater was almost untouched, a gilded mausoleum where empty seats could watch empty screens where empty stars made empty jokes until the next end of the world. I spent the majority of the day making up humorous (at least to me) similes and metaphors for the various businesses we’d left behind. Overall, it was another very boring day, the only exception being when we paused outside the local animal shelter to drink more liquid disease from a crack in the pavement.

At some point, the dogs inside had broken free of their cages and forcibly turned their loving caregivers into the first of may feasts. Now, at least one generation later, they watched us as we watched them. So many different breeds were represented in their disproportionate forms that I couldn’t help but think of them as more of a circus troupe than a voracious hunting pack. I laughed to myself as my brain painted clown makeup on the drooping faces of bulldog and pit bull mixes. The enormous Irish wolf-newfoundland retriever pacing protectively back and forth found itself the proud owner of a black cape and top hat. Bristling terriers hopped back and forth through make believe hoops while mournful hounds bellowed fire.

“What in the hell are you laughing at?” Tippu hissed.

“They… They’re the cutest little circus ever,” I gasped, barely able to breathe between fits of almost manic laughter. They all exchanged a round of worried glances and decided it would be best to drag me away before they had to put me down like a rabid dog.

As the air turned cold for a second time, I found out that life was indeed full of surprises. For no apparent reason, Tippu veered off the main drag and led us down an alleyway. All the trash cans were shoved against one wall and the dumpster had been rolled out into the opposite street. In it’s place was a large camouflage tarp thrown over a misshapen lump and, upon seeing the tarp, my captors exhaled a sigh of relief.

“I can’t believe she’s still here,” Johnny said.

“Well keep believing that so you don’t jinx us,” B. Goode replied. Tippu grabbed the tarp with both hands and yanked it off. It was a pickup truck. I’d seen thousands of trucks in my life, taken cover behind dozens of them, siphoned gas for generators from dozens more, but never had I seen one that still functioned. A dented plow was secured to the front, streaks of paint marking each time it had been used to push less mobile vehicles out of the way. A line of floodlights jutted from the top bar and a makeshift cage had been soldered onto the middle of the flatbed. Despite these additions, the truck itself had been cut down to make it as lightweight as possible, little more than a steel exoskeleton wrapped around internally combusting guts. One side panel had been left intact and spraypainted with the name “Amistad.”

“I’m going in the cage, aren’t I,” I said.

“What gave it away?” Tippu asked sarcastically before tossing me a heavy sack. “Put this on.”

“Really? Come on, you’re not even going to let me enjoy the first drive of my entire life?”

“Nope,” he replied as Mr. Biker Jacket shoved me towards the flatbed with his wrench. I hauled myself up, let myself into the cage without even a courtesy knock, sat down, and pulled the bag down over my face. Keys jangled and the cage door locked with a satisfying click.

I’d always wanted to ride in a working car, and despite my dire circumstances, I was determined to enjoy the experience.

“Johnny, B. Goode, watch our guest and make sure he doesn’t hit his head and knock himself out or anything,” Tippu ordered as he hauled himself into the driver seat. The truck rocked back and forth as everyone else got in and then, like a grizzly bear rudely torn from hibernation, it roared to life. Gears clattered, axles whined, I nearly toppled over as we surged into motion. It was better than I’d ever dreamed it would be. Wind tickled my face through the bag, pulled at my clothes. The acceleration made my heart jump with every shift. We swerved through the cluttered streets, each turn made especially exciting because I couldn’t see it coming. We’d been driving for quite a while when I caught a whiff of putrid breath and B. Goode said,

“We’re about to pass through the great wall, little ghost. You will hear voices. These voices are not your friends. Trying to call for their aid would only end badly for you. Do you understand?” I nodded.

Right on cue, the brakes squealed and Tippu killed the engine. In the distance, I could indeed hear voices. Harsh orders were punctuated by sharp cracks. Mournful songs with a steady tempo accompanied the telltale ring of hammers and pickaxes. Boots crunched through gravel in our direction.

“Identification,” a vice above the crunching boots demanded.

“Right here,” Tippu said. “How’s the progress today?”

“Slow,” the voice replied. “But it’s always slow so there’s no use bitching about it. Is that one on tonight’s card?”

“He sure is.”

“Huh… Don’t look like much… But I already bought tickets for me and the wife tonight, start of the new season prices and whatnot, so if it sucks I’m blaming you.”

“Oh I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised,” Tippu assured him. Apparently his identification checked out because we set off down a gently curving dirt road.

“B. Goode?” I asked when the voices had completely faded away.

“Hm?”

“Not to be insensitive, but how could everyone I killed possibly have fit on this truck?”

“It took a few trips to get everyone there. We all thought it was a complete waste of gas, not to mention we lost an entire day, but Tippu was certain we’d need as many guys as he could find. I guess he was right.”

“You sound even less broken up about them than I was,” I noted.

“Why should I care? I didn’t really know any of them. My brother and I are both fine. Sometimes no one comes back at all. And now we each get a huge cut instead of the shitty one we were expecting.” I sat back and enjoyed the drive for a while. A car going in the opposite direction honked and Tippu honked back. I could feel that our journey was close to its end.

“We’re almost to the Hornburg truck depot,” B. Goode said as though he could read my thoughts. “You should start waking your legs up now. We’re running a little late, and there’s still some paperwork to be done, so Tippu is going to want you moved to the holding pen as soon as we park.”

“How did you know my legs were asleep?” I asked as I shook them as best I could without falling over in the moving vehicle. He chuckled,

“This isn’t my first rodeo, little ghost.”

Just as he’d said, Tippu ordered his men to move me as soon as we stopped. I remember very little of the walk… people all around us… bumping into me… voices came and went before I could make sense of them… doors opened and closed… They left me in a room what reeked of sweat, where men begged and threatened and prayed to no one in particular. I was there for almost an hour. More than anything, I wanted to pull off my hood, but I knew that there would be serious repercussions if I did. There was a sound, almost a buzz, that never quite went away. It rose and fell, sometimes annoyingly loud and other times whisper quiet, but it was always there. Eventually, a pair of hands hauled me to my feet and guided me up a ramp. The sound grew louder with every step until it became a dull roar. My foot struck a wall in front of me.

“Try not to die, little ghost,” Tippu whispered in my ear. The handcuffs were unlocked, the hood was pulled from my eyes, a boot kicked me forward, and I was falling…