AT THE END OF THE WORLD

King of Crown Heights

UNDER SEIGE ON PACIFIC. Brick. Graffiti. I'm Bored. Shouters District. Death 2 Amerikkka. Spinning. Smashing Casey Kelly.

"Whoa! Whoa, Kir," Casey snapped, his hands on my shoulders as I bounced off, jittery, shaky. "Kira—"

"Casey!"

Zombies! I was saying. Fingers curling in his jacket, yanking haphazardly—up the stoop of a shoddy building; an old, yellowing piece of paper posted on a glass door: Dear Tenants, Please do not leave your cigarette butts on the stairs in front of the building. He slammed a palm against a panel of doorbell buzzers: b-bzzzz-bzzzz, fizz, click, bzzzzzz!

The door fell away under my hands, and I shoved us in haphazardly. Somebody was crouched in the back of the hallway, nearly hidden in a doorway behind the staircase, a shotgun perched and aimed. Boom! Casey lurched down, cursing under his breath as I dove, army-crawling across damp, grimy floor. Click. Boom! A squelching whine exploded, us slipping upstairs—

"Who are you!"

Thump. Thud.

Steep.

Footsteps charged up behind us, and I whirled. The door jammed closed. A sweaty grip on a wooden railing in a leaky, din hallway, skidding, drifting; a dirty, homeless-looking guy, closing in on Casey. Not... a Zombie. Perhaps a... Serial Killer?

Some Manson MF waving a Bowie. His beard scraggly, coarse: hair longer, coarser. Dark. A gaunt scowl stretched his skin so pallid I was 96.5% certain I'd pissed off a ghost. The Ghost... of Charles Manson.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Case hissed, annoyed. "I'm not doin' anything, asshole!" Thud. His knee down, ankle caught, and I kicked, Casey wrestling him off, ass-clunking down a step—

Then Casey had his knife, and I was wobbling, pushing—

Clunk. Clunk. Snap.

Dead. Probably.

But I was already half-way up a second staircase, and I... wasn't stopping. 3A. 4A. Darkness. Elbows slamming against metal doors, yelling, screaming.

"Let us in! Somebody!"

Casey crushed beside you, Kira. Alive. His knuckles bloody, scraping at a door over and over and over. Shouting. "Hey! Hey, open up!"

Welp, somebody... did.

Door fell away again, and I pitched off in a ditzy swirl. Vaguely grey. Everything ajar, an arm overhead; a guy with a squarish jaw, unruly, greasy curls draping over a baggy flannel, gazed down quizzically. "What..."

"Zombies, if you didn't know," Case said, pushing inside in an impatient huff. Greasy backed up and let him in, bu—

"Hey! Hey, who are you? Who let you— No. No, you—" A 2021 Ted Bundy approached, clearing a narrow, darkly dimmed hallway in a single stride; his beard trimmed, groomed, a waxy, oaky brown.

Did all Men look like Serial Killers... or...

Was I being crazy?

"Luke, you—"

"Think I buzzed 'em in, Dorian—"

"Okay. Get out—" Dorian... Bundy (?) approached Casey Kelly, and I swallowed uneasily. Yikes. Case probably would've just... left, if you asked nicely. "Now, or I'll have The Super remove your ass. How'd you get past— I'll go grab Zachariah—"

My lips parted. I didn't know why I laughed.

"Oh, Zachariah?" Casey nodded. Like he understood an inside joke. "Downstairs?"