Grind City

Chapter 3

After the last ten days, Crawford wanted nothing more than to sleep. Dane's little scheme seemed to have not panned out. Nearly a full day had passed without so much as a text from his friend. On the rare occasions that Dane planned something, he'd spam Crawford's phone all day, making sure he didn't forget. Sometimes Crawford wondered if Dane did that to remind himself more than anyone else, as no one could need that many reminders for any reason. Without a wall of nonsense on his phone when he finally rolled out of bed that afternoon, he didn't even think about the supposed movie night. He just went about his day as if it had never happened.

Bed, however, was a loose term. Though he had lived in the small apartment for years, he never bothered to get anything that actually resembled a bed. Instead he slept on a ratty old couch with a fabric that hadn't been seen in the last three decades. The middle sagged and the cushions no longer fit right, but it served as something to lay on that wasn't the floor. That was about all he needed. He also hadn't bothered to get things like dressers or shelves. Blankets and clothes lay in vague piles on the floor, punctuated with pizza and takeout boxes. His TV sat on several stacked up milk crates. In the corner beside the TV sat the only items that he gave any real care to. A guitar in a case covered in band stickers, a small amp to plug the instrument into, and a set of large headphones for when he didn't want the amp to be heard.

They sat under a visible layer of dust.

Crawford finished jamming frozen pizzas into his freezer, which constituted most of his groceries for the week. That and the case of beer sitting the counter. However, that was more for the next two days rather than the whole week. Peeling two cans out of the box, he moved over to the couch and dropped into it's faded, worn, creaking cushions. He waved his hand vaguely at the screen across the small room and it flickered to life.

The news droned on as he set to unlacing his boots. Weather and traffic. Things that didn't much matter to him. As he pried off his left boot, the pretty blond reporter came back to the screen to discuss serious matters. Something about recent movements in the government to crack down on sexual predators. Before they could cut to the self-important politicians spouting their usual rhetoric, he waved his hand again and the channel changed. Some sort of action show with people in brightly colored leather suits fighting each other. He didn't care, as long as it wasn't the news.

He checked the soles of his boots, making sure they were still intact. They were wearing thin, but he still had time to find something else. The last thing he needed was holes in his boots when the winter rains started. Setting them aside, he shrugged out of his sweatshirt. That didn't require inspection. He already knew it was full of holes. Most of them crudely stitched closed, or held with safety pins. He'd started to decorate it with patches, but he ran out of patience after three. Well, technically two. The large one that covered the back was Dane and Jackie's doing. A long time ago when they thought the instrument in the corner was their ticket to somewhere better.

Stretching out on the couch, Crawford opened one of the cans he'd dragged in from the kitchen. The show on TV exploded in color as two overpowered phenoms in stupid outfits clashed. Everyone knew powers didn't work like that. Even the firestarters couldn't do something that epic. No earthshaker could tear down a building on their own. No illusionist could change the perceptions of a district, let alone an entire city. Leave it to TV writers to fill kids' heads with this kind of nonsense. Thinking they could become larger than life heroes just because some stupid show said they could.

Eventually the show shifted into something just as ridiculous that Crawford paid even less attention to, as both of his beers were gone and he didn't feel like getting off the couch. While staring at the TV and letting the noise of people fighting monsters that looked like wads of tar brought to life, he started to drift off. Somewhere between the cheesy reveal of the villain and the forced romantic subplot, he must have drifted off to sleep because he was suddenly standing on the street outside. The dark sky, heavy with clouds, glowed a dull orange, reflecting the fires from across the river. At his feet, cracks reached out like spiderwebs. The one directly before him began to widen. He tried to close it, his hands reaching for the stone as if it were a wound he could some how hold shut. From the fissure, thick black ooze began to swell out in vile bubbles. Limbs erupted from the surface, hauling a disgusting, bloated form that squeezed through the crack. A mouth split open like a knife wound, a head swelling out behind it like a rapidly growing pustule. It's thick, dripping voice hissed out the same words it always said. Words that shook Crawford to his core as he watched the thing growing taller and taller. It didn't always look like this. Sometimes it was just a man on the street. Sometimes the words were carried on the wind. Sometimes it was a beast with horns, or a lion made of shadow with eyes that burned.

"You can't hide him forever," the colossal beast spat out. A misshapen limb reached for Crawford. Burning, sticky fingers wrapped around his throat. "You can't hide him forever!" Crawford's pulse roared in his ears. The ground around him tore open as if by a beast's claws. Metal and stone, shrieking and grinding a cacophony, debris rising around them as if ignoring gravity. He beat at the searing slime that gripped him, ignoring the pain in his hands.

The noise, the pain, the fear. It all hit a wall. For a moment everything floated in silence, before he was awake.

As he opened his eyes, the dream faded to mere wisps. So much chaos reduced to hazy memory. Reality came back to him in pieces. The TV was still on, the show having changed again. It was still overblown, over dramatic, over emotional nonsense. Only then did he realize what had woken him.

A droning buzzer.

Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he pushed himself up from the couch, trying to remember how to operate his limbs. Some how he managed to get to the intercom by the door without breaking anything.

"What?" he growled, hitting the button to kill the sound.

There was brief silence on the other end. "You forgot."

"I didn't forget shit," he barked, not quite registering the voice.

"So he lied. That little shit."

Jackie. Shit. He didn't bother saying anything else. He just hit the other button to unlock the door downstairs. He unlocked the deadbolt on his own door. On his way back to the couch, he picked up his phone. It was after eight already. Though he couldn't recall quite when he'd settled on the couch, it had to have been over two hours before. It felt like he'd slept for all of ten minutes, in which he'd been dragged behind a truck. He hated those dreams, even though he could never remember them.

He sat on his couch, with his feet up on the cheap table that was full of makeshift ashtrays and empty beer cans as door opened. She carried three large pizzas in front of her. That might seem like a lot for such a small gathering, but Dane was likely to eat half of that on his own.

"Just to make sure we're clear, you're a goddamn slob," she declared as she moved into the cramped room.

"You think I care?" Crawford said. He used one foot to knock some of the cans and food wrappers onto the floor to make room for the pizza boxes.

"Not really." She planted her hands on her hips, taking in the space as if Dane could be lurking in one of the corners. Not for the first time Crawford saw just how much she stood out in his dingy cave of an apartment. Even in her most lazy, casual clothes she looked more put together than he could ever manage. Today her dark hair was a spherical cloud around her head. Her dark skin reflected back the colors of the TV beside her, casting her in rapidly changing blues and pinks. She wasn't as broad as Crawford, but she wasn't slender either. Solid was the word that came to mind. She wore a tanktop that fell open along the sides. It tucked into what appeared to be sweatpants that would have been too big even on Crawford. But they'd been rolled, tucked, and tied in such a way that the seemed to stay on her frame just fine. "I'm guessing he didn't even bother to show up."

"Didn't even tell me it was happening."

Her head slowly swiveled back to him, full lips pressing into an impossibly thin line. "He told me you'd okay'ed it."

"What I told him was that I'd only do it if you were okay with it."

She let out a growl. "I'm going to to hold him out the window by his ankles!" She dropped down onto the couch and threw open one of the pizza boxes.

"We're only five floors up. He'd probably survive the fall."

"Even if I drop him on his head?"

"Thickest part of his body. Nothing gets through. I doubt even that would crack it."

"Fair point."

Crawford reached for his own slice of pizza. At least it was from somewhere good and not one of the cheap frozen things filling his freezer.