AT THE END OF THE WORLD

Essential Workers

TANKS STEAMROLLING BROADWAY. Bushwick again. "Fucking Government," Casey spat. They'd let a spattering of shots go, and I'd duck, J.C. spiraling down a staircase—an underground station off the G. Hotboxing. Sirens echoing; bedrock vibrating in icy darkness.

"They're shooting Zombies," I said quietly. Right?

J.C. snorted. "Yeah. And anybody Black, probably. I can't keep walking around." The air swirled and hummed.

"Gun," Casey kept saying. "We need a gun, Kir."

True.

"Where you gonna get a gun, Case?" Casey Kelly had a baby guy; Casey Kelly definitely had a gun guy. Only question is if anybody is alive anymore.

"Sunset Park." Tanks had passed. Casey was already heading up, hacking a cough. J.C. slapped at his back. Easy-Breezy. We droned down; an abandoned B54 sat at the cruz of Flushing and Myrtle. Lights on, hazy grey. Its blinking, scrolling message: MASKS REQUIRED. There.

Boom, Sarah would say. RIP.

So, yeah, okay, Casey stole(?) a B54. Yeah. War Crimes, I guess. Doors were open, y'know. I ripped away a plastic-y barrier, found keys. He drove Myrtle as I leaned in, fiddling with a knob until I found scratchy reception—"Here in New... NFL Commissioner Robert..." Fizzing.

"Shit, turn it up, Kir, what're they saying?"

Clunk!

I catapulted, bouncing back. Pothole. "... both teams..." Fingers sweaty, clammy. Casey drove like a maniac, okay? "...protocols set forth by the CDC—"

It snuffed.

"Fuck it," I muttered, heaving a sigh. All I could catch was The Doors. The End. Poetic. Casey had grifted Bed-Stuy, and as I hummed along with Jim Morrison, I paced, gnawing on my bottom lip; J.C. in a cloak of darkness, nodding off. I lit up. It was all anxiety. "Hey, Case," I blew a smoke ring, swaying, jolting, offering wordlessly. Stress. We were all very, very stressed, okay?  Wild Wild City. "Where we go.. in...g..."

"Dive?" he snickered, dragging, passing off. Casey lolling a lazy look, as if him and I would do our usual thing: hit Down or Dive, get a drink and smoke a joint in the backyard before I puke on their bathroom floor, or in their backyard, yeah. Normal. Joking. He was joking. I...

We were going down Myrtle. Huh.

"Nah, I know a guy in Sunset Park, okay? He'll hook us up, I know." His shoulders lifted. NBD. Sunset Park was all the way on the other side of Prospect Park. Laidback New Orleans. Casey Kelly didn't bunker down.

Okay. I nodded. My neck stiff. "How do you know he's alive?"

"Oh, I'd put money on him being alive," he said, flashing a bemused grin. "Kind of a cockroach, y'know. Takes an army, so somebody said, right?"

"Maybe a Zombie Army?"

"Faith, Kir. Faith."

"I can't believe you... don't have a gun, honestly," I mused, inhaling, a cigarette between my lips. "I mean, Casey Kelly."

"Well, no. You asked me not to bring a gun into Spring."

Ladies and Gentleman: Roommate Of The Year. Thanks, Case.

Morning deepened. Brooklyn under a heavy haze, smoggy. Hasidic Bed-Stuy. Myrtle had nearly been razed. Buildings burning lowly, smoldering; a fleet of Honda Odyssey's, gas tanks open. "Bet they're siphoning," Case rasped. "Gas."