Rosie

“Hands up, pal.”

I turn slowly, not wanting to disturb the brown-paper bag in my arms, loaded full with precious groceries. When my eyes adjust to the glaring lights haloing the man addressing me, he pushes the barrel of a cheap burner pistol in my face, its dull red glow and low metallic hum conveying its deadly threat.

“Uh, I can’t exactly do that, man.” I shrug, letting him see the bag cradled in my arms like an infant.

“Oh, uh, shit.” He pulls the gun back to his chest, but keeps the barrel pointed at me. “Well listen buddy, I’m kidnapping you. Try anything funny and I’ll blast right through your ribcage.”

I look the man up and down. This aggressor, demanding my full attention at gunpoint, isn’t much to look at. Greasy blonde cowlicks spreading in every conceivable direction constitute his mop of hair, concealing his eyes. A frenzied, unkempt beard matches his hair. His recycler mask, fashioned from the top of an old milk jug, hangs limply around his neck. A worn bomber jacket, made of crosshatched duct tape strips in black and camo green, drowns his thin, wispy frame. Multiple layers of fraying, threadbare pants are held up by a tied strip of cracked leather around his spindly waist. His feet are crushed by a worn, too-small pair of cheap sandals, one sickly yellow and the other a puke-green. Their soles are caked heavily in mud and shit. Finally, my gaze is directed past the burner pistol in his right hand, still menacingly focused on my stomach, and hones in on the contents of his left hand. In the grubby paw lies a shiny golden locket, the kind you’d see several generations ago around the necks of old couples and wistful maidens. A stolen locket, no doubt.

“I…” I trail off, a heavy sigh exiting my wheezing lungs. “No one’s going to come looking for me, you know.”

“We’ll see,” he answers. He gestures for me to turn back around, pushing me forward when I do as he asks. “Get moving.”

We walk down cracked flagstone sidewalks through the night, passing under the candle-glow of the sooty street lanterns. I almost retch when I smell the nasty, rotten wisps of recycled lantern wax, pushing me to suck a few breaths of stale air from my recycler mask. If I make it through this, I’ll be sure to get a better filter. When we reach the inner city, where we crash into bustling crowds of workers just released from their hellish shifts, the stranger moves closer, digging the barrel into my lower back.

“What’s your name?” he asks amid the threads of clamorous conversations in the night air. I suppose he’s trying to make this less tense. Less awkward. But it’s hard to be amiable to someone when they’re one twitch away from scorching your guts out.

“Khalil,” I finally reply.

He blinks twice. “You a refugee?”

I say nothing. I don’t feel like answering him. Just hearing the word from his mouth sends shards of bad memories through my brain and ties my stomach in knots.

“I’m, uh, Nicks,” he breaks the silence he created. “Bryce Nicks.”

I still don’t answer, squeezing through the crowded streets. We pass by a food stand I like to visit on special occasions, Pueblo’s Fried Roaches. Pueblo’s daughter Amalia is working the stand tonight. She jiggles a cage full of battered cockroaches into the vat of homemade frying oil, a smile plastered on her face. The scents make my mouth water, and it seems Nicks is entranced by the smell too, from the way he hungrily eyes the fried bugs being heaped into paper cups.

“Have you ever had fried roaches before?” I ask, turning my head to face him as we walk.

“Not really,” he replies. “Should I?”

I nod. “Best thing you’ll ever taste.” I’m not sure why I’m telling him this, but it gently tugs on the knots in my gut from before, undoing them a little.

Nicks nods back. “I’ll do that, thanks.” He nudges me to the right, in the direction of a shadowy alleyway. “Down that way.”

I follow his instructions, breaking off from the crowd and trudging down the gravelly footpath. I could try to run away, of course. But I decide it’s not a good idea. Despite his earlier attempts at warmness, Nicks still has the pistol’s barrel poking into my back. The fact that that’s a black market item is enough to convey the danger he poses.

We head through the rusted iron doors into a run-down apartment complex, the faint, muffled sounds of families and couples seeping through the thin walls. A pall of dust and fine powder hangs in the air, smelling like burnt plastic and chalky earth. Some of the residents poke their heads out of the doors at us, their faces caked with dirt and emptiness in their eyes. This must be a complex full of plascrete workers, working the foundries day in and day out to provide the building materials shipped up into space. Luxury-grade plascrete, used for either the orbital Manse-Stations occupied by the filthy rich 0.01-percenters, or the resource-hoarding oligarchs in the White City built on the Moon.

“Here.” Nicks pushes me down a set of stairs into the basement, where a hefty iron door awaits. He pockets his locket and bangs on the door in a rhythmic pattern.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump.

Thump-thump. Thump-

“Aw’right, I’m comin’ awready!” A heavy accented voice response from behind the door. An eyehole slides open on the door, revealing a set of olive-hued eyes full of annoyance.

“Ah, Nicks. Welcome ‘ome, ya bastard!” The eyehole shuts and the door gives a groaning lurch as the shifty man slides it open. A cocky-eyed youth steps forward and slaps Nicks on the shoulder, only giving me a passing glance.

“Another one, eh, chum? Got a death wish, do ya?” He ushers us both in, only to snatch the bag of groceries from my hands and throw himself onto a grimy sofa, opening a bag of seasoned locusts and munching away casually. “What’d you come ‘ere for, mate ? What’s wrong wit’ your place?”

“Can’t do my place anymore. Rosie, remember?” Nicks snaps, and the man tosses him a bag of dried pineapple. My mouth waters as I watch them eat my groceries. They were supposed to last me the whole month…

“Oh yeah, ya lil’ charity project.” The cocky man snorted. “Never thought you’d turn soft.”

“Watch it, Wren.” Nicks snapped back. “Let’s just get this over with. Do your thing.”

Wren sighs, setting his bag down on the trash-strewn floor. Jumping up from the couch, he strolls right on up to me. Without a single word, he rips the tracker bracelet off my left wrist, much to my horror. The device immediately begins beeping blaringly.

“EMPLOYEE 1928337, KHALIL IBN-AL AHMED!” the device screeches. “ YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF STATUTE SEVENTEEN! VIOLATION OF STATUTE SEVENTEEN IS A CAPITAL OFFENSE! YOU HAVE TEN SECONDS TO RECONNECT DEVICE TO ARM! TEN…” The device begins counting down. Wren flips it over and snaps open the back panel with a bent screwdriver. With two deft pulls, he yanks out several yellow wires.

“Fiiiiive...:” The bracelet groans and shudders to a halt. Nicks lets out a loud, relieved sigh.

“I’ll get to work on this bugger. You watch ol’ grocery boy ‘ere.” Wren states this matter-of-factly, then saunters off to tinker with the bracelet. Nicks gives me a knowing look, seeing how my chest is heaving up and down raggedly. That countdown had almost given me a panic attack.

“No matter how many times he does it, still scares the shit outta me.” Nicks shares my apprehension. He comes over and slaps me on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine, kiddo. We’ll take what we need and send you back to your folks.”

I can’t help but utter a dark, short laugh. “My folks are gone…” Nicks raises an eyebrow. His hair no longer hides his eyes, amber, warm, and with a hint of sympathy.

“Nobody to go home to?”

“No. I had my Maybelle, but…”

“But?” He whispers the question, unknowing of how much my throat closes up when I utter her name. I can still hear her screams in my head.

“... she got taken.” My words tremble. Nicks fumbles with his hands, unsure of what to do next. Eventually he gingerly pulls me into an awkward hug.

“I get it, pal,” he comforts. “I get losing someone. But there will always be others to help you. To kick your ass and drag you on your feet, and tell you that things will be okay.” He pats me on the back, as if trying to force his words to sink in. I return the hug, squeezing Nicks tight enough to elicit a soft smile from him. Maybe he isn’t so bad after all.

A whirring noise breaks us out of our moment, forcing us to strain our ears to hear. Nicks pulls out his burner pistol with one hand, and clutches his heart locket tightly with the other. The whirring turns into a muffled, mechanical whining. It seems like the noise is coming from outside. Wren pulls a weathered baseball bat from under his worktable, adjusting his grip until he’s ready.

Then the windows shatter.

The three of us dive to the ground, shielding our heads. The whining grows even louder, accompanied by blaring sirens. Several flying drones zip in through the broken windows, red and blue lights flashing. Police drones.

“CITIZENS, YOU ARE IN VIOLATION OF THE LAW! EXECUTION OF DEADLY FORCE IS HEREBY AUTHORIZED!” The drones click as they load their guns, leveling red-dot sights at all of us.

“Get out of here, Khalil!” Nicks screams at me. He gets onto his knees and fires his gun at the nearest drone. The barrel flashes red as a white-hot slug of energy burns through the machine, sending it careening into the floor, its rotors still spinning haphazardly. I use the confusion as cover to bolt to the iron door. I wrench it open with all my might.

Another drone is waiting on the other side.

The machine opens fire on me. The bullets tear through my body.

I fall onto my back, the drone passing over me to shoot at Nicks and Wren. I feel a warm puddle of red pooling on the floor, soaking my back and spreading to my arms. I strain to look over at the others. Wren is shattering a drone with his bat, but a second one shoots him square between the eyes. He falls to the ground with a dull thud, the bat clattering out of his grip.

Nicks dashes about the room like a man on fire, blasting through nearly all the drones with his pistol, dodging and ducking behind furniture to avoid the gunfire. But it’s not enough. Little by little, the bullets pierce his chest, his stomach, his legs, his arms. One drone, its mag empty, rushes forward and barrels into Nicks’s skull, knocking him to the floor. He doesn’t get back up. The locket in his hand tumbles out of his hand, rolling over towards me. Despite my fading sight, I can see the picture inside, now open for the world to see. It’s a photo of a small, fluffy white dog, its pink tongue lolling out as its eyes are crinkled in a smile. Below the photo, the locket is etched with a single word:

Rosie

My eyes water with bitter tears as I bleed out on the floor. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not-

A final bullet pierces my skull.

All thoughts cease.