AT THE END OF THE WORLD

Inauguration Day

CASEY KELLY KINDA THRIVED IN CHAOS. It wasn't even a real plan. It was five days before what would've been Inauguration Day, I remember. 182 civilians flocked and falsely imprisoned in a Home Depot. (He counted.) La Hielera. They kept it cold, icy. Testing a Vaccine.

Like... Lab Rats, Jason. Literally.

They were understaffed, yeah, but if you knew Casey's real kill count, by association, you would be blown away. POs. EMTs. Doctors. Scientists? Riku and Gabriel gunning down a back hallway; Jose Luis in a break room, holding somebody called Doctor Hansen hostage; Casey going in blazing.

It escalated.

Casey wasn't planned—Casey Kelly was a fluke of a frontman. Somebody who'd been pushed around, been fucked by a shitty system, drugs, jail, lived in short, violent bursts across America. Somehow, where Casey Kelly flourished in drug-addled anarchy, Casey Kelly could also funnel functional unity.

He had Guns. We had Guns.

Did I kill anybody? Like... in cold blood? Like Casey?

If I did, would I tell you?

Everybody wrapped in muddy blankets and jackets, curled up on cold concrete in shelf corners. They'd ducked and covered, looked up warily. Details were dark, blurry. Fear.

Somebody else Casey knew. In a Drug World, it's all about who you know. And in Zombieland.

"Seriously? Case, where you been?" It was a dark-haired dude with inked knuckles; I don't know who he was. He wore a Carhartt, a faded red bandanna, and a mask—an N95. His eyes were a deep brown. He brought Case in, clapped his back quickly. Then I got a bro hug, and I shrugged him off uncomfortably.

"This is Kira," Case said, jabbing a thumb. I flicked a halfhearted wave. Roommate? Friend? Smoking Buddy? Meh. "'s cool." Cool. Okay.

"Damn, I can't believe you're down here, bro, you lived up in Bed-Stuy, yeah?" He shook his head, laughed incredulously. Then broke off in a cough. I winced, leaning into Casey's chest, leaning away. (Learned Instinct?) "Fucking crazy or what, bro! I mean, did you go through Prospect Park?"

"Yeah, yeah."

"New York's Newest Graveyard," he snickered, a half-wince flashing. "People are just dyin' a get in." His suuuuper sardonic hardy har, as if he'd realized a poor joke belatedly. "Nah, lost a lot of good people already. Glad you're okay, you know, Case. You too, Kir."

"Yeah, you too," I said, nodding softly. I meant it. I didn't know exactly what anybody had been doing in Home Depot. Testing. They'd been Rick and Mortying 'emselves, injecting here or here, a little bit of sugar and spice, Vaccine, Corona-Z. Half of 'em died, Ignacio explained. He'd kept tally. Women. Men. Kids. Families. Everybody seemed South Brooklyn-based. Emergency Routes led down Gowanus—Home Depot. It was a sham, Jason. Nobody was safe. They were... were—

Yeah.

There were others: people who'd heard people were led to believe YMCAs, Fallout Shelters, Libraries were Safe Zones. Sarita said Lucy was at Brooklyn Public Library in Sunset Park. There was a conspiracy cooking, yeah, about Trump being behind Corona-Z—a chokehold on COVID-19. Something about weeding out the weak, proving NRA necessary. (Casey could've been a spokesperson. Guns, Guns, Guns.) Everybody'd been sharing stories about Queens being obliterated; Albany burned down; Cuomo effectively impeached; a State Emergency in California; National Guard deployed (and subsequently disbanded—read: dismembered) in LA, in Chicago, Miami, Boston. Metropolitan. But Disney was barricaded. Cinderella's Castle would be safe. Don't worry.