AT THE END OF THE WORLD

Lesbian Territory

SOMEBODY HAD SEEN ME. Riku in a bashed-up Jeep under Home Depot's upper level parking lot—where I passed by, sleep-deprived and despondent. I waved. I remember. Bye, I'd mouthed, angling off Jetro. Hamilton Ave. It was dark. Camouflage.

Vaguely, I wondered about Enrique, too. I hadn't seen him. Had he died? Maybe.

Ashes dusting under a bridge, all Silent Hill warnings. Some kind of smoky kiss. Next, a goddamn siren'd be going off. But BQE was deadly quiet above you, Kira. Up what I knew was 18th. 4 down, Nitehawk was on 14th, all way down off Prospect Park.

But Dyke Slope became a shifty loop of condos and brownstones, all mirroring, reflecting, ídentical—and I started categorizing vehicles: an old Honda Civic on a corner by a lone, leftover street sign on what may or may not have been 5th Ave.

Then by clumped baby carriages, broken book boxes, bodies along bloody curbs. Everybody was bloated-open, splay-spilling guts in a brightening haze. Dawn came and went. In a locked deli, scarfing down Little Debbie snacks and Lays chips, I'd have killed for a Philly Cheese Steak. Maybe Yoona and I could become Amish in rural Pennsylvania. They were probably okay.

While I didn't see many Zombies, I kept a firm grip on my gun, ready as I wandered around, increasingly hopeless. My nose burned. I was sniffling. Cold.

Somewhere on 5th, a grid system seemingly endless...

"Tonight..." My blood curdled, Jason. "I want all of you..." Suddenly. Swiftly. Ne-Yo. "Tonight..." And I whipped around, nearly ripped a round on somebody blasting a Pitbull song probably a decade old. A Maserati blurring by.

I jumped, ricocheting off a curb, bounced back in a shadowy nook of a Vivi Nails. Yoona used'a go—

The Maserati ground a dragging, crunching halt. Fuck.

Zombies couldn't drive, could—

"Hey!"

"For all we know, we might not get tomorrow..."

A clean human arm hung out a passenger window. Behind 'em, an armored vehicle cruised around an abandoned crash, slowing, slowing, slowing... Maserati blocking, idling.

"Hey!" Head poked out his passenger window. He looked like a douche, yeah. "Where you going!"

"Let's do it tonight—" Somebody was singing along. Gross.

"Nowhere," I called, stepping up. "Where..."

"Lesbian Territory, baby." A wobbly laugh. Driver was definitely drunk. Honk!

Passenger Seat glanced in his rearview mirror, jerked his chin. "Hey, get in, okay?"

"I'm good."

Then—out of a circular hatch atop of said armored vehicle, Casey Kelly popped up. Fuck. "Get. In. Kira!"

His voice echoed across Park Slope, I swear. I was lost. Somehow, Casey had stolen an army tank(?) and found me, yeah. So I got in, yeah. Backseat. We were crawling—a Convoy. Again.

"Isn't Ginger's around here, bro?"

It was. I'd passed its ratty rainbow flag a half hour ago.

"Ginger's, I love Ginger's."

"You got us perma-banned from Ginger's, Levi."

Levi and Nick, I learned. They'd been drunk at a bar when Corona-Z broke in Brooklyn. No, Queens, Levi had corrected: "I was looking for a Spicy White Latina."