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."
YOU ARE READING
AT THE END OF THE WORLD
AventuraRoommates Casey and Kira smoke their way through unimaginable stupidity in the COVID-19 Vaccine Zombie Wasteland of NYC, hellbent on seeing Breezy play in the Super Bowl. "I never saw Casey Kelly again."