"Yeah!" Dylan screamed, spraying blood and spit. "You like that, you fucker? Huh, you fuck!" He punctuated the insult with another kick to the head.
The creep tried to wiggle away, but Dylan dug his heel into the back of the man's knee. The Pig shrieked into his radio, his voice mushy and garbled. He was calling for Staley.
Dylan flipped the bed, and the mattresses slumped against the wall. He picked up the frame, arms straining.
"No," the Pig said, shielding his face. His eyes were wide with shock, his mouth turned down, as if he never expected to die, as if he had foreseen a different end. "Put that down. Put it down now."
Dylan used the frame to crush the Pig's head. He didn't stop until the pervert was twitching, his good eye roving in its socket, the rest of his face a bony mush.
A second passed. The world did not split open. It did not die away. The Pig wasn't God. Psychic, perhaps. But omnipotent? "Fucking megalomaniac," Dylan said, wiping blood from his lips.
He had expected to feel sick after murdering someone, but he was so steeped in shock it didn't faze him. He was only numb and floating.
On the officer's utility belt, still looped around the discarded pants, he found the handcuff key. He was slotting it into the lock when Staley burst in.
The cop gaped at the body, and for a moment Dylan expected him to fossilize, maybe shatter, no longer animated by the Pig's imagination. But then Staley glowered and lunged, just as real as any stone, and apparently just as heavy.
Twenty-five.
Dylan flung the bed frame, and Staley fell against it, pinning Dylan to the floor. The frame dug into his chest and compressed his bruised ribs. He coughed, spraying the cop with blood from his lip.
Staley head-butted him, and Dylan almost fainted. Something warm flowed from his eyebrow; he mistook it for sweat-until the blood flooded his eye.
The cop stood and lifted Dylan by the neck, bed frame still attached. He squeezed so hard Dylan could hear his windpipe crumple. His vision pulsed and corroded black at the edges. A quietness closed in around him like pillows. He almost welcomed it. Nestled there, he wouldn't have to worry about Friday, Minnie, or anyone else.
Finally-finally-silence.
Then Staley dropped him and looked at his own shoulder. Smoke began to drift from beneath his uniform.
"Shit," he said. "Shit."
Dylan barely heard it, hacking and trying to catch his breath. His throat felt crushed, and the air burned in his lungs.
With dumb hands, he unlocked one cuff. Free from the bed, he scrambled to the Pig's discarded pants and found the gun on the belt.
Staley snarled, pounced, streaking smoke.
Bang!-Dylan fired the gun through the holster. The cop howled and fell to one side, clutching his thigh. His black pants began to grow blacker around the wound.
With the gun strapped into the holster and belted to the pants, Dylan staggered toward the door, still dizzy from strangulation, one eye stinging with blood. He stumbled over the Pig's corpse into the corridor.
Staley yelled something, and the dresser clattered as he pulled himself up. His wounded leg dragged on the carpet.
Dylan was almost to a set of doors when the cop's bullet whizzed past his face. Dylan turned and shot back. He missed; the weight of the pants threw off his aim.
He bulled through the doors, into more halls, a series of twists and turns and rooms, some of them offices. Tools kept falling off the Pig's utility belt-the baton, the stun gun, the extra magazines-breadcrumbs for Staley to follow.
The cop lagged behind, turning one corner as Dylan turned another, his bullets seconds too late. Dylan finally outran him, lost, his ribs aching, his lungs on fire.
He stopped and whirled around, looking for a way to the drunk tank, a way back to Friday. He wiped the blood out of his eye. No signs, no landmarks. Just his own trail of police paraphernalia.
Staley popped around the corner. He had snuck up, even with a wounded leg. Adrenaline. Smoke poured off him, thick and black. He roared and took another shot.
Something seared Dylan's arm-the bullet; it had grazed him. He returned fire, still struggling with the pants, hitting everything but his target: the wall, some kind of information desk, the computer terminal sitting on top. He rounded another corner and kept going.
Finally, he came across the double doors that led to the tank. He rushed through, hoping, praying Friday was alive, even though a small dark part of him hoped she wasn't. Things would be easier that way.
Friday sat on the bench at the back of the cell. When Dylan came in the room, she scurried to the Plexiglas. Ash dusted her clothes and smudged her cheek. Otherwise, she looked okay.
She put her hand to the glass, and Dylan pressed his palm over it. "I'll get you out," he said, his voice mushy from the fat lip, his mouth numb. "I promise."
Friday nodded and smiled; her eyes sparkled with tears, and her scar glowed the color of a rose.
That's when Staley barged in, his face blistering and boiling like stew.
Twenty-six.
The first two shots zipped past Dylan's head. The last one hit Plexiglas, and the slide on Staley's gun froze, cocked back and empty. He kept charging, roaring, and pulling the trigger. His uniform caught fire, and his blisters popped into flames.
Dylan tried his own gun. Nothing happened. Then Staley tackled him. The fall knocked the wind out of him, and his head bounced off the linoleum.
The cop's stone face contorted into a grimace, almost a grin, as he throttled Dylan's neck. His eyebrows ignited-singeing, blackening, gone. Burn craters opened on his cheeks, and his eyes burst, splattering Dylan with sizzling liquid. His lips melted away from his teeth.
Dylan managed to buck him off and scuttle away. Staley clawed for his ankle but missed. He crawled forward even as his skull began to show, black and screaming. Dylan feared he would never stop, the Pig's revenge incarnate.
Then the cop convulsed, fell over, and lay still as the rest of him burned. The sprinkler system never turned on. The cops must have disabled it, expecting lots of smoke, lots of burning bodies.
Avoiding the flames and noxious fumes, Dylan plucked the keys from the cop's belt. He unlocked the drunk tank and took Friday's hand. They hurried to the exit, covering their mouths.
Outside, as the door closed behind them, Friday hugged Dylan so tight he winced at the pain in his ribs. He hurt all over-his fat lip, his split brow, the open blisters on his back-but he returned the hug even tighter.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, the slightest breeze in his ear. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay," he said, not sure what he was forgiving her for, not even caring. He breathed her in, and beneath all that smoke, she smelled like rice. It was the best smell in the world.
She kissed him, pressed her lips lightly against his. No tongue, but it dazed him. Her breasts pushed plump and warm against his bare chest, her nipples stiff.
"Well," Shadow interrupted, sitting against the building. "Glad you two could make it out. I was starting to worry."
Twenty-seven.
Shadow remained seated, but Dylan shielded Friday.
"What do you want?"
The punk looked up at him. All the pride and sadism had drained from his face. Aside from the piercings, he looked like a little boy, with big eyes and a pouty lip. He held up Geoffrey's briefcase, which Friday had left in the Impala. He also had a folded white shirt, but he seemed to have lost Pubes' gun.
"I thought you might want these," he said, holding up the case and the shirt. "And I thought I might apologize. You know, for being a dick. I just-I went crazy. I was scared."
Dylan flexed his jaw. He thought Shadow had been worse than a dick, but didn't say anything.
Friday came out from behind him. She stared at Shadow and he stared back, looking apologetic. After a moment, she started toward him. Dylan reached out for her, but she didn't stop.
At first, he thought she would slap Shadow. Instead, she bent down and hugged him. He hugged her back. Dylan wanted to rip her off him-that asshole didn't have the right to touch her-but he didn't.
Eventually, the two disengaged. Friday took the shirt and the briefcase, and Shadow extended his hand to Dylan. His fingers were slender and frail, the nails long. His palm appeared to be clammy.
"No hard feelings?" he asked.
Friday looked at Dylan, as if waiting. Waiting for him to just forget the Beret and the black girl, Geoffrey and the suicides, to disregard them and forgive all of Shadow's betrayals. The bastard had abandoned them, had left them to the cops. Dylan knew that somewhere beneath the boyish exterior, deep in some underwater crevasse, the anglerfish waited, luring prey with the hope of light. Friday was halfway into its jaws, beckoning Dylan along. And for some reason, he followed.
He gritted his teeth and shook Shadow's hand. The punk's palm was sweaty and cool.
"Good," Shadow said, smiling. "Good."
Dylan stared off into the parking lot, ignoring them both as Friday changed into the white shirt that Shadow had brought. He undid his handcuff with Staley's keys and tossed the pair into a nearby planter. He wiped a thin trickle of blood out of his eyebrow, flaking away the dried flecks. His lip had settled into a steady throb.
Finally, he said, "Now what?"
"Up to you," Shadow replied. "Whatever you want. I've lost my right to say."
Friday smiled and laid her hand on Dylan's arm. "Minnie's," she said.
Dylan thought about it and then slowly nodded. He did want to see her. He had come all this way. "Fine," he said. "Minnie's."
Friday's smile brightened, and she rubbed his arm.
Shadow stood and dusted off his pants. "Ready when you are." He smiled innocently, but his piercings held a secret gleam. Dylan wished he knew the secret. He would find out soon enough.
Twenty-eight.
Along G Street, the looters had disappeared, leaving shattered glass, crumples of paper, broken guitars, wrecked vehicles, spilled beads, silver earrings, river sandals, dresses, mannequin parts, and all sorts of litter, including piles of ash. Too many to count.
Shadow, Friday, and Dylan walked through the debris on the sidewalk, avoiding the human remains and crunching through glass. Their footsteps echoed, flat slaps on the concrete. No one spoke a word.
In the distance, Dylan thought he heard music, a melancholy guitar and a droning voice. He thought it was a song by Staind, the one his roommate's radio played at least twice a day: "It's Been Awhile," or something like that. He had never really liked the song, but it wasn't bad from afar, the words softened to vowels. It filled the awkward silence that had grown between them.
Shadow used to be a loudmouth; why wasn't he talking?
They made their way across 6th and 7th, weaving between the wrecks. Both streets were completely congested. Pieces of break lights and taillights twinkled everywhere, and a few cars with automatic transmissions were still rumbling, stuck in drive and pushing at the vehicles ahead of them. More radios sang their songs-rap, country, hip-hop-and the traffic lights turned from green to yellow to red, one right after the other, all the way down the strip. Somewhere a cell phone rang. Crosswalk signals displayed the white pedestrian symbol.
On A Street, signs of riot surrounded them. Houses burned. Cars were vandalized, smashed. Trashcans were tipped, their contents strewn about, and some thundercloud plum trees had been chopped down.
In one yard, a dog ran in circles, barking. It stopped when it noticed them and put its paws on the chain link fence. It whimpered, yipped, and then ran behind the house.
The silence mounted, festered, a whole world of silence. Everyone was gone: gas pump attendants, fast-food workers, artists, musicians, politicians, Latinos, Indians, soldiers, students-probably Dylan's mom. Their ghosts hung in the air, muffling everything, smothering everything, leaving a white noise.
Along the street, the houses stood empty and breathless, waiting for their owners to return, waiting for normalcy, waiting for life. They would wait for eternity.
Pressure built in Dylan's chest, and he felt like he was screaming; he just had no mouth. He couldn't make a sound-had to make a sound, had to cut open this pocket of isolation and breathe.
"That's Minnie's apartment," he said, pointing. His hands began to shake as he realized how close they were. He had no idea what they would find.
Minnie lived in an apartment complex composed of three two-story buildings, shaped into a staple around the parking lot: one building on either side, and one at the back, hidden behind pines too malnourished and twisted to grow beyond eight feet tall. Each unit had gables, so the buildings looked like small houses cramped together. Where the wood siding overlapped the foundation, black widows spun webs into the woodchips and around the rocks that constituted the landscaping. The rest was concrete, with an aggregate mix for the sidewalk through the pines.
In the front-room window of a unit, a lacy curtain fluttered, and Dylan thought he saw a face move out of sight, just a white blur.
"Which one is hers?" Shadow asked, scoping out the gold numbers on each apartment door.
Dylan answered without thinking, still watching the lacy curtain, waiting for the face to reappear: "Number thirteen."
"Hmm," Shadow said. He jabbed the gun against the back of Dylan's skull. "What an unlucky number." Then he pulled the trigger.
Twenty-nine.
The gun clicked.
Dylan flinched, certain he was dead, waiting for pain, waiting for darkness. Later, he would realize that Pubes had used the last bullet on himself.