It was snowing. It always snowed. 

I stood under the flakes, watching it fall. The clots of white-on-white reminded me of animals. Through fogged goggles, I picked out bulging elephants, sleek panthers and stripped zebras. I laughed. I hadn't seen so much as a cat in months. The devil-dogs like a good kitty. 

Ahead, a dusky grey figure formed out of the falling debris. My first thought was that it was a man-bat--but it was only a clown. A city-dweller, he wore the same motley collection of sweaters and coats patched together as I did. Only his face was different, distorted with thick scars, earless with only a small stub of a nose. He had tried to hide deformities behind a mime's mask. The clown leaned against a billboard. 

I shouldered my thirty-odd-six, pulled the goggles from my face. I thought how strange we must looked to this cold, burnt-out city, with its broken-window eyes, its mouths open and gaping doorways. I always had that feeling when I entered a city. The clown seemed immune to the terrible gaze of the deserted high-rises. He isn't afraid, I realized. What are clowns afraid of?

 The harlequin looked me up then down. It was an exaggerated motion. What did he think of this tattered wanderer? The coat was mink. It gave me a look that was anything but fashionable. I was an animal, hairy, like a spider. The long-barreled hunting rifle only confirmed the notion. An outsider, not city-bred. A man made up of scraps of cloth, bits of fur, cotton here, wool, nylon, leather there. To finish off the garment, I had wrapped barbed wire around my arms and legs as protection from devil-dogs. 

I examined the billboard behind the clown. The surface was peeling, covered in smudgey red spray-painted letters. Worn and forgotten. Like everything. 

Clown dug into his glove. He retrieved a small, well-folded note, then handed it to me with another exaggerated gesture. I accepted the leaflet without my usual caution. I had to pull off one of my mismatched, bulky mittens (the red one) before I could take the offered form. The mitten dangled from its string like a Christmas ornament, as my hands carefully unfolded the paper. I marveled at how clean the sheet was. Wiping the flakes from my lashes I read: 
 

I laughed again. Clown showed no sign of taking offense, only looked at me with honest, questioning eyes, peeking from the eye-sockets of his mask. The message wasn't a code then, I decided. 

I refolded the paper, handed it back. A second thought made me ruffle through the many layers of his coat to retrieve a greasy cigarette package. I pushed down on the end to read the December dates. 

"Well, I'll be damned! It is Christmas Eve." 

Clown nodded his head vigorously, clapping his gloved hands together joyously without sound. 

"Sorry," I apologized, then added: "But if you see the big guy, tell him -- ah, nothing. Forget it." 

Clown tilted his head, insisting. 

"Well, tell him, I've been a good boy this year." 

The harlequin nodded, then leaned back against the billboard, continuing his vigilance. His slight frame hid the ugly red letters and the last strips of a peeling poster for a Florida car dealership. 

"Any place a guy can get warm around here? Food maybe?" 

The clown pointed down the road, at the dark towers of the city. 

"Don't talk much do you?" I asked sarcastically. "Hey, what's your name?" 

Clown's answer was a wave across his masked face and a short flourish. 

"Clown, eh? Well, see you later, Clown." 

The masked man nodded querulously in my direction. 

"Me?" I paused, stifling a laugh. It had been a long time since anyone had called me anything. "They just call me Teacher," I decided at last. 

Clown waved good-bye. I stalked by, stomping once again through the deep snow. My eye lingered only a second on the long billboard and the red scrawl across it. 

The Clown's directions proved true. I followed the road until it split in two. At the center of that fork was a large apartment building. The bars on the windows proved it was being used now. Only bars would keep the devil-dogs out for sure. As for the man-bats-- who knew? 

I went up to the front door, which at one time had been a simple affair, lock and buzzer. Now, it was a mass of nailed boards, impenetrable, nasty. A bell hung from a gibbet over a spray-paint sign saying, Gino's. I rang it. 

A pair of hands and a gun barrel appeared. "Who are you?" a man's deep voice wondered. 

"Name's Teacher. I want some water, maybe something to eat." 

"How you going to pay?" 

"I have ammunition." 

"You can have a bed and a plate of chow for a slug, two if you want heat. Water's free if you stay. Got girls, too. They're another bullet." 

"Just a hot bed, thanks." 

"Pay now." One callused hand waited impatiently. The gun barrel never left my head. I passed over two shells. 

The man disappeared. Seconds later bolts were drawn and the massive barricade swung open to admit my snowy carcass. The interior of the building was dark. My eyes adjusted slowly as I made my way down a short corridor to what had once been a restaurant. Tables and chairs, dusty but still reminiscent of a different day, before the devil-dogs, before the winter came and stayed. A terrible longing filled me. I tried to push it from my mind, but the feelings would not go. 

"Here's where we eat," the landlord pointed out. My eyes had finally taken to the dim light, provided by small oil lamps, enough to see that my host was a fat, stubby man with little hair. He carried a rifle in one hand and had a long bowie knife belted to his bulging waist. 

"This way." 

One flight of stairs brought us to a door. The landlord pointed. "This one is yours. Check out time is whenever the hell you feel like it, but come sunset tomorrow, you pay again or get out." 

"That's fine," I agreed. 

The fat man opened the door, led me in. A match hissed and an oil lamp was lit. The landlord made to leave but turned at the last minute. "There's dirty magazines there by the bed," the hotelier pointed out, then changed his mind, "You sure you don't want--"

 "No. Thanks, no." 

I was left alone. I closed the door, noticed there was no lock. A quick scan of the room located a wooden chair. I propped this against the door. Not the best barrier, but it was all I was going to find tonight. 

The room was dusty. The bed was housed in a ratty bed spread with large holes. Warm blankets peeked out like mice. I wished I had taken a bath before slipping under the cool, dusky covers, but had forgotten to ask about it. Expensive, no doubt. Still, it was one of those things that made you think of the old days. Old days. Sounded like it was years and years ago. Months really. The world hadn't taken long to fall apart. 
 

Sleep came without warning. I didn't hear her enter, pushing the chair away with quiet determination. The room was too dark for me to see her face. That she was naked, made me forget the long knife hidden under the pillow. The girl wriggled under the thick mat of blankets, curled up along side me. Her body was slightly damp, smelled of cedar wood and camp smoke. 

"I didn't ask for you," I insisted softly. 

"I know," was all she replied, pulling closer and weaving her thin legs around mine. 

"What's your name?" the man wondered abstractly. 

"They call me Amber?" she rasped, moving away slightly. I couldn't tell if the roughness of her voice was illness or natural. 

"The guy downstairs your old man?" 

"Nah. He keeps me off the street." 

I thought about that one. A stranger's bed was preferable to being hunted through the dark rubble. If I'd had to make that choice, I knew I'd be here, too. 

"You want to do anything?" 

"Can't afford it. Sorry." 

"Just pay half -- Gino's half." 

"Is that the guy downstairs?" 

"Yah. Do whatever you like." She pulled herself from me, daring me to decide. My eyes had adjusted and I could make out the thin, brown-skinned woman. She was thin, her ribs pressing out of her bruised body. It was her sad, brown eyes, I noticed most. 

"Sorry --" I began, but need not have bothered finishing. The slim, brown form slipped from the bed, back out the door. Her soft pattering feet were not loud enough to drown out her words. "Bastard ..." 

As tired as I was, I found sleep hard to find. 
 

I was dreaming... 

It was a swirling light. It spun and I stared, though not by myself. Bully stood to my left and Hater to my right. Psycho's disconnected voice kept saying over and over, "Fuckin' Hell." Like a mantra, the words soon became meaningless. 

There was movement. Something was coming out of the light. I wanted to run. I wanted to get away. To find Sheryl and and Timmy and run. 

"Fuckin' Hell," Pyscho said again. 

The thing coming through the light was long, not tall. It stood on two legs, then four. The head resembled a dog's, one of the hairless kind that race. Except the eyes. The eyes were not dog's eyes. The eyes spoke of killing. Fast, lethal death. Painful and cruel. "Fuckin'--" began Psycho for the last time. 

We ran.
 

... drifting. 

I floated in rest for an indefinite time. I enjoyed the feel of the mattress, the tug of the sheets against my legs. Only the gun shots tore at the perfection of my little womb. Someone shouted from below, loud, rough voices that sucked away the sleep. 

More shots, closer. I dove for the chair which I had replaced at the door. Before donning my pants, I pumped a cartridge into my rifle and waited. I threw my pack over one shoulder. If I had to run, I was leaving nothing behind. 

A scream from the hallway. I drew the door open slowly, pushing the chair aside with a booted foot. There was a man wrestling with a Spanish-looking girl on the dirty carpet. He was trying to push her arms away, while undoing his pants. The leather-gloved fists struck at her face and stomach. "Fuck off, bitch!" he snarled as she fought with tooth and nail. 

I opened the door quickly and quietly. One boot clamped down on the man's ankle, while my rifle butt swung up into the air. The attacker had enough time to look up at the descending stock which smashed into his neck like a guillotine. Like meat, he rolled over and stopped moving. 

"Thank you -- thank you," the woman cried, pulling what was left of a cheap cotton nightie over her brown breasts. From her voice, I knew she was the one named Amber who had visited me earlier. 

"Stay here," I commanded, slipping past her and down the stairs. 

The bar lamps were dead. I saw three forms thrashing about in the darkness. One man was fending off two others with the remains of an ax. I assumed it was the landlord, being harried by thieves. The attackers bore makeshift swords, old pieces of metal scraped until pointed. The ax was keeping them at bay, but for how long? 

I leveled my gun at the back of the closest man. I hated to waste ammo but the sound might drive off any others I could not see. I fired. The sword-wielding attacker crumpled like he was made of sticks. The second man spun to see who had fired the shot, when the ax cleft his skull to the jaw. The man with the ax cried out jubilantly in a thick Jamaican accent. 

I moved closer, gun still raised. My eyes had adjusted to the poor light. The man I had saved was not the landlord, but a large black man. We eyed each other. The rescued man grinned like a pussy-cat. His large eyes, invisible except for the white, spoke of the pleasure of doing battle. 

Lightning fast, the Jamaican was out the door. His darkly-colored body disappeared into the night air. I was left alone with the dead. Or maybe not. A groan brought me over to the bar. The thirty-odd-six swept a path through the broken tables. On the floor in a pile of shattered glass was the fat landlord, Gino, holding a blood-spattered wound on his flaccid gut. 

The man's voice was grave, filled with meaning. "You just bought the farm, mister. Those were Hart's men." 
 

I said nothing. What did that mean? "Hart's men?" I wanted to ask the wounded man but another crack of gun fire upstairs drew me back to the hallway. The woman was gone. The barred window of my room sat open on a thick hinge. Someone was outside. 

With cautious peeks upward, I tipped the rifle ahead of me as I inched my way out onto the roof. The street below was empty, but that meant little. I bolted for the cover of the chimney. Again, I surveyed the sky as well as the ground. I heard rough laughter to my right, but farther away. Nothing. 

Just as I was sure there was no danger, a bullet ripped past my ear, shattering the dirty brick-work. Figures on the roof of the far building. One moved. I aimed quickly, fired. A satisfying thud followed as the man fell to the shingled roof top. Someone swore. 

I peered out again, careful to keep my gun barrel low. I was four stories up and a chill winter wind blew at my back. I was thankful I had dressed in all my clothes, even the thick scarves. I waited for the other man to make a move. He didn't. 

Movement on the ground. I fired, missed. "Careful, mon," the shadow hissed. I realized it was the Jamaican from the bar. I yelled, "Sorry!" but the black man made no reply, just kept moving. A wasted shell. I only had five left. I sat and waited. 

Crack. The shot was well-placed. My arm exploded in red gore. I reeled like a man in a movie, but rolled away from my injured limb, hugging the rifle in the process. My adversary had snuck around me and was only seconds away from a final shot. But it never came, only puffs of ragged breath and an invisible shadow in the darkness. 

"Shit!" cursed the killer as he approached. He traded his pistol for a long knife. I tried to raise the rifle one-handedly, but my attacker kicked it away, pulling up his blade for a stab. I pitched forward. The knife bounced over fur, cloth, metal. And in that split second, I realized something. I knew this man. The knife-wielder was one of the reasons I had come to the city. Just like the other two. 

"Bully," I swore as I dove at the man. My head slammed into the knifeman's belly, throwing him to the ground, latching on with barb-wired limbs. Our bodies collided in a bitter tussle, with knees and elbows and teeth all drawn. I pressed his wounded shoulder down in place of my useless arm. With the other, I punched at Bully's throat. His knife harried my back, but found little to cleave in the mass of material. Another shot to his neck and Bully dropped the knife, clutching at his smashed windpipe. 

I stumbled to my feet like a jerky puppet, clutching Bully's blade in my good hand. The advantage was mine and I did not plan on losing it. I drove a booted foot into the fallen man's ribs. Again, pushing him to the very edge of the roof. "Do you remember me? Where are Psycho and Hater?" I screamed. 

"Go to hell! I work for Hart--"

 I kicked him again with all I had. Bully whimpered like a dog as he fell to a cold, hard death below. 

Looking down at the swastika-shaped corpse on the red-speckled pavement, I thought, one dead. The fact did little to soothe the pain. Still, one of the three gone. Now, for the other two. 

I turned to retrieve my rifle when a gush of freezing wind brushed the hair on the back of my neck. A gust followed by a set of taloned feet ripping into my damaged arm. The roof was gone from beneath me. 

Empty air. 

I grabbed at the two powerful hands that held me. The bristling hair and razor-tipped claws were not necessary to tell me I was caught in the clutches of a man-bat. I did the natural thing. I still had Bully' knife. I stabbed at the bony wrists. I did not care that I had a five story drop. The knife bit in. There was a scream. And I was airborne. 

My exhilaration at being free lasted only a second before I felt the descent. I screamed, waiting for the pavement to come smashing up at me like a fist. Instead I felt something hard and smooth strike my arm -- then, blackness. 
 

I must have been lying there for an hour. My entire body was covered in a soggy layer of new snow. I pulled myself up into a sitting position. Someone had stuck a branding iron up my right arm. It was broken in two places. My ribs pulsated in a similar fashion. The fact that my breathing was not painful meant the ribs were only bruised. Only! I winced. 

I was not on the ground. Bully was. He was dog-food. The devil-dogs would clean him up before day-break. The snow tried to cover the red patch but failed. From my vantage point, three flights up, he looked like a gopher who had taken on a white-wall and lost. I was lying on the small balcony of an apartment building. 

I leveled with myself. I was in trouble. If the man-bat came back or some slag looking for an easy target, I was not going to be able to do much to stop them. My arm was broken. I had hit the rail on my way down and fallen in rather than out. I had to get indoors and heal up. I had food and water in my pack which had broken my fall partially. My rifle was not on the balcony beside me. 

I got up slowly. I staggered over to the patio doors. Where once there had been plate glass were several layers of cheap plywood. I tried vigorously to pull down even one sheet of the wood with my good hand but failed. I kicked. I screamed. I cried. I was a prisoner in a world that no longer had any prisons. 

Hours passed. I tied up my arm as best I could. Luckily the bullet had only grazed me. It was the fall that had broken it. I used some refuse plywood for splints. I crouched under the eave and tried to stay dry. The cold did not worry me. I had my fur and the weather was warm enough to snow. The cold and I had long since stopped trying to kill each other. It was the bats I watched for. 

The sky was beginning to lighten. It was almost Christmas morning. No St. Nick. No reindeer. I thought back to the old days, me and Sheryl and Tim. Back home. Presents you didn't want from aunts you never visited. Kids getting all wired on the excitement. Tears and spankings. Too much turkey. And Christmas cartoons. How I would have traded the rest of my life for just one more Christmas like that. The memories brought tears. I sang "Good King Wenslas" just for the hell of it. 

Footsteps above me. "Somebody down there?" A deep feminine voice wanted to know. I wasn't sure if I should answer, but after the singing... Ducks in a barrel had a better chance than I did. I could be on somebody's turf. That would make me unpopular. Then again, I was injured, trapped. I took a gamble. 

"Ho, ho, ho. Merry Christmas." 

"Who the fuck's down there?" I heard a shotgun being cocked. 

"My arm's broken," I offered. 

"Who are you? I'm not asking again." The voice seemed disconnected, god-like. "Name's Teacher. I fell off the roof." 

"You alone?" Her tone suggested it was unwise to lie. I could see the tip of her shotgun barrel. There was no question who was boss. 

"There's a dead guy on the ground." 

"Who is he?" 

Name's Bully. Used to work in a saw mill." 

"He's one of Hart's men. You kill him?" 

"Technically?" 

"Don't be an asshole. You snuff him or not?" 

"Yes. Does it matter?" 

"You got a gun?" 

Twenty questions. I had no choice but to tell her. "Left it on the roof. Thirty-odd. Walnut stock." 

There was a long silence. She must have gone to look for my rifle. This was significant. First off, I would probably never see my gun again. Second, she must be alone. She had no one to send in her place. No wonder she's cagier than a virgin in a whorehouse, I realized. A woman on her own was an easy target. Hell, anyone on their own was. I had only made it this far by gross, incompetent luck. Without a gang or a pimp like Gino to fight with, anyone, man or woman, would soon be dead -- or worse. Was she cut off from her gang? Or was she a loner like me? I had little doubt that she wasn't a survivor. 

Ten minutes passed. The voice was back. "It's gone. Too bad." 

Yah. Too bad for me. "How about some help down here? My arm feels like crap. The rest of me ain't much better." 

No answer. Seconds later I saw a small blistered hand. A blanket and a canteen landed on the balcony beside me. I guessed I was to be staying a little longer. "Fuck you, too!" I yelled in thanks. 
 

The rest of the morning came while I watched the street. I kept my eyes peeled for flying reindeer. Maybe St. Nick would give me a lift back to the North Pole? No show. Guess I was a bad boy again this year, I decided. I guess I have to do it myself. 

I took the bowie knife that I had used on the man-bat. The only good thing Bully ever gave me. I crawled toward the plywood prison door. If I could cut my way in or break through I could simply walk down to the street. I stabbed at the plank. A nasty flare of pain shot through me. I ignored it and tried again. The knife cut deep into the rotten wood. Again. Biting back tears I continued until a small hole had been cut through. On the other side -- more plywood. From the feel of the cuts, I guessed the wall to be at least three pieces thick. I rolled over and said some very un-Christmasy things. 

The time passed. I used the blanket to set up a wind break. This helped keep the snow out of my small cell. My furs were plenty to keep me warm. Christmas Day looked like it would be warm. I relaxed and waited. And waited. And waited. About three I become so bored watching the snow drift in the empty street I started to belt out Christmas carols again. My mysterious hostess showed up quickly. "Shut up, you jerk." Her festive mood matched my own. 

"Hey, why don't you let me the goddamn out of here? I'm not going to hurt you!" I regretted saying that almost instantly. I bet she'd heard that one before, too. Isn't that what all the creeps say in the movies, just before they splatter their next victim all over the screen? 

"Shut up, all right!" It was an ultimatum. Shut up or -- die. 

I shut it. It wasn't all right, but what choice did I have? That was swiftly becoming my motto: What choice have I got? This day was shaping up to be my best Christmas ever. Damn it all anyway, I cried. 

Evening came. I still watched the street. It wasn't exactly television but there weren't any commercials either. I hoped to see the black man or someone I could buy some help from. I now knew how Rapunzel felt. I was the ragged princess waiting for Prince Charming to release me. I decided to start growing my hair out. 

That night I took stock of my possessions in a hope of finding some method of escape which I had failed to see before. It felt good to do something after a day of nursing my arm and feeling sorry for myself. I had: my clothes, a bowie knife (thanks to Bully), two smaller pocket knives, a barbed wire garrote, a half-empty Bic lighter and a compass. Useless, all of them. I had tried to cut my way out several times but to no avail. The jarring was too much for my battered body. The garrote was designed for two hands. The lighter might have burnt the wood from the doorway but everything was wet and soggy. The compass was cute but so what? I went to sleep. 

The morning was to bring deliverance. 
 

I was dreaming... 

I was buried, completely. The snow was all around me like a giant white hand. I was squeezing through the fingers. It was cold, white, dark. 

My arm was free. It flopped like a sick white fish on the black-white ice. My head. I could breathe. I was out. But I was freezing. 

Pulling myself free of the snow womb I looked about for the others. Psycho. Bully. Hater. The cabin was burning. Near the door was the body of a devil-dog. Its charred ribs looked like a broken bird cage with the canary escaped. Free. I could feel nothing. No cold, no pain, no loss. 

I stumbled, as in a dream (wasn't this a dream?), searching for something living. We are all dead, I realized. Cold. Dead. A little further out I found the body of a man-bat, its wings ripped to shred like an old car-top. They had run when they heard the shrieking of the bats. They had escaped the devil-dogs, but not the bats. My back was cut open, but nothing leaked out. There was no sign of the other three. The devil-dogs would get them. 

Or the cold. They would head south, and away from the cold. Only it was everywhere. As were the devil-dogs and the man-bats and the things that lived in the water. And the cold. I sat down beside the cold Death. It's skeleton face grinned at me and I remembered everything, how it all happened. How winter came to the world to stay forever. Only short months ago... 

Death turned its bony head towards me again. I looked into its dark, black sockets. There was death waiting there, of course. Death for the three who had abandoned me to Death. I would be their death, Death said. 

Go, my son. And kill. 

I got up, started looking for anything useful. I would survive. I had to, if I was going to kill those three. Psycho. Bully. Hater. I said their names over and over like a mantra. It warmed me a little. 

Psycho. Bully. Hater. 
 

It looked like an elephant's trunk. It was long, bunchy and tough. It was a rope made from rags, old sheets. At first, it didn't register. What was its purpose? It was a vestige of another reality. A second look was followed by a cry of joy. 

I shuffled over. My body was stiff from a night of sleeping on a soggy heap of garbage. The rope was long enough to reach down to the balcony I was on. I tugged the cord with my good arm. The thing was solidly attached. 

I called up. No answer. I was alone. There was no one to help me. Pain shot up my shoulder when I tested the broken arm. It was no good. I had a way to escape but not the strength to use it. I was still a prisoner. And I would be until my arm healed. By which time I would have starved to death. This thought did nothing to cheer me up and it reminded me I was hungry. 

I swore at the woman's inassistance. I had told her I was injured. Had she thought it a trick? I supposed I should have counted my blessings. She could have shot me there and then. Worse yet, I could have been dinner to a swarm of man-bats. All the same, I swore. I was dead three ways. The gesture was moot, empty. A man needs both arms to climb. I called for another half hour but stopped as it was getting dark. The man-bats would be out soon. 

They say that, in desperation, the best ideas are spawned. I supposed this was a case for such inspiration. Perhaps I had no way to go up but I still had down. I stretched myself along the rag ladder, gained as much length as possible. The rope was securely between my teeth, making it taut. It made no sense to lose the cord as I was cutting it down, I decided. The bowie knife hacked at the cheap cloth with short ripping slashes. The fabric gave after a few more strokes. 

I now had a rope about five feet long. With it I could lower (swing actually) myself part way down to the next balcony. If that goal proved to be as solid a barrier as my present cell then I would repeat the process again. I figured I had enough length for one more try. After that -- it was jump or starve. 

Using my good hand and my mouth I refastened the cord to the lower railing, as close to the floor as possible. I tested its strength then straddled the rail with some difficulty. I almost took a dive but caught myself with my legs. I was too busy staring down four stories to worry about the pain in my groin. Once on the outer side of the rail I rested --just a short break because any second a man-bat could pick me off. 

All I had to do now was jump. Batman made this look easy, I recalled of a world that did not fear wings on a man. I sucked in all the breath I could, holding the cord in one hand, then jumped. The rope snapped like a whip and I collided with the rail below. I kicked like a hanged man, pulling myself over the divider with my legs, as my good arm clung for dear life. I let go, landing on my head. The pain was instant and brutal. Fortunately, I passed out for a minute or two. 

I had done it. I congratulated myself upon waking. The lower balcony was filled with rubbish, not unlike the one above it. The patio doors were boarded over but there was a big hole through the planks, like that which a giant rat might make. Success. I had survived again. I was not sure if rejoicing was really appropriate. My arm, ribs and head hurt like hell. In just twenty-four hours I had broken a major bone and bruised nearly every inch of my body. The soft bed of a night ago seemed like a distant memory. The girl, the black man, the fight on the roof, it was all a long-forgotten dream. 
 

Inside the apartment was pitch black. I stared at the black hole but felt no fear. I was beyond fear. I felt strangely ethereal, like the rest of the flotsam that surrounded me. This was a bad sign. I must be suffering from shock and exposure. I knew I was hungry and sore. 

I crawled in on my belly, knife ready in my good hand. Inside, I rested, listening. Silence. I took the lighter from my pocket, lit it for a few seconds. I tried to make out something of the furniture. No sense in bumping into things. The room had once been an office of some kind. The accountants and secretaries were gone but the filing cabinets remained. They were filled with dusty paper files. To think, someone had once thought this stuff was important. I would have laughed, except I was too hungry. 

There was no door to stop me from entering the hallway. The blackness inside was absolute. I traveled by touch, rather than wasting the precious lighter fluid. An open door. I stopped. The door slid into the wall on either side. A testing foot proved what I knew. Elevator. No door, no elevator. I steered away from the shaft and searched for a stairwell. 

With a little work, I was sure to find my way out of the building. But what I really wanted to do was go up. I wanted to see if the woman had really left. I wanted to know if my rifle had truly been lost. I wanted to thank her, show her my good intentions, vindicate my asking for help. So up I went, instead of down. 

The darkness was absolute. I found the stairwell, identifying it by its heavy unlocked door. I went up and soon was standing on the level of my imprisonment. I continued up, feeling my way, kicking away the refuse which blocked my path. Then I could go no farther. A barricade of junk cut me off from my destination again. I almost cried. Someone, the woman I presumed, didn't want gracious visitors with thank yous on their lips. I lit the lighter again. Nailed boards. I grunted then began pulling away chunks of steel and wood with my good hand. I used my good shoulder to push aside some empty gas canisters then an oak table. It took me ten minutes to clear away what normally would have been two minutes' work. Still, I reached the door at last. 

It was locked. 

This was it. I had reached the point of breaking. I screamed. I kicked the door. And I promptly fell over backwards into a heap of garbage. 

The garbage moved. I was not alone. 

Rats. 

The first few scurried away, having been frightened by my landing. Their courage would increase with their numbers. I remembered the elevator shaft. I had been stupid. My screams of anguish had raised them from their dark hiding places. My cries of pain and frustration had been a call to dinner. 

I was up quick as a frightened cripple can be, which set no records. Still, I avoided getting bit. Rats are dangerous. If they didn't tear you to pieces, their bites festered. And in the dark, where I could not even see them -- There was only one weapon. 

I fumbled with the lighter. My thumb brushed the flint twice but no light came to fill the dark corridor. I thanked God again that I did not have paper matches, which take two hands to light. The seconds flashed by. Small rodents bodies crawled over my feet and legs. Strike, strike. Still no flame. Not even a spark. Had I somehow gotten the damned thing wet? Again. Finally a flash which died as fast as it came. Red pin pricks in the dark. Eyes, hundreds of eyes. The light faded, casting ghost-lights behind my eye-balls. 

I kicked as I worked the flint wheel. My thumb was numb now. Furry bodies scurried everywhere. Their courage returned seconds later. Several things clung to my legs and no manner of gyration would expel them. Again. Strike, strike. At last, a bright orange tongue of flame lit up my world… 

The explosion drowned out my cheers of joy. 
 

The hardest bone in the body is the skull. The hardest part of the door is all of it. That much I knew. Skull. Body. And door. All of them flew into the hallway with about five feet of flame. I could smell burnt fur, both mine and the rats. I could feel nothing, see nothing. Seconds later, I passed out. 

I lay for only a few minutes, but it was enough to allow the fire to burn out. Whatever gas had collected in the stairwell had burst in the explosion. I could smell carbon smoke. It made my nose burn. 

The hallway was surprisingly well lit and clean. With the exception of myself and the shattered door there was no garbage anywhere to be seen. The light flooded in from a door on the left. I tried to rise, made it about half way and froze. Every muscle, every bone, tendon and organ screamed. I felt like shit. 

Giving another Herculean push I was on my feet. My brain turned off all in-coming calls from my body and got down to business. I was now on the floor of the woman who had saved me. There seemed little evidence of her being home. I hadn't exactly knocked once and come in. I imagined if she had been home I'd have been dead right about then. Not that that seemed like such a bad idea the way I felt. 

Her room had once been an apartment. In the middle of the broken-burnt furniture, I could see where my mysterious hostess had camped. There was a clean, dry spot where she had slept. The cracked jacuzzi was full of ashes. Not a bad campsite at that. I kicked through the woman's refuse pile. It contained the empty shells of her stay: tin cans, the box for shot gun shells (no shells), bits of worn-out socks, bones, turds, tampons and cigarette butts. 

She had been there a while. It had been her roost, her one safe place, her sanctuary. And I had stumbled onto it -- making her run. Damn. No wonder she had treated him the way she had. I would have done the same, I decided, almost. I wouldn't have bothered to save my ass. A good roost is priceless. 

Then I saw them lying half obscured under an old cushion. A curl of yellowy-white. A peel. And a card, too large for a playing card, but one of those kind you see in fortune-teller movies. A tarot card. An old-fashioned picture of a naked man and woman sat over the words: The Lovers. I picked them both up, not sure which was more unusual. The peel felt strangely familiar. A Christmas Orange peel. I sniffed it even though it had been drying for several days. I couldn't believe what I was holding. A real orange peel. Impossible in a world of snow. I pocketed both the rind and the card. 

It was time to go. The building was trying to kill me and I knew it. So far it had failed, but only marginally. I needed rest, a first aid kit, and a good meal. That meant returning to Gino's. Assuming that the building didn't finish its job on the way down the stairs, I joked. I might just get to sleep in that soft bed again tonight. As I saw it, the owner still owed me a good night's sleep. 

The stairs down proved much less work. The first thirty feet were charred. I couldn't see the blackness but I could feel it. After that first flight came another and another. A dull eternity, ending only when I exited the building looking like a chimney sweep who had been through a grain thresher. Turning, I saluted one high finger to the murderous tower. I had survived. Barely. 
 

It was mid-day. The sky was clear. The snow had stopped. Cold air seeped into my brain, clearing the fog inside. A ramshackle stovepipe shoved out an apartment window pulsed a snake of smoke from the roof of Gino's. Someone was home. I rang the bell. The bar-keep eyed me from the shadows between two boards. 

"I believe you owe me a room," I said simply. 

"No." 

"Yah." 

"Go away. Hart's men are looking for you." A shotgun barrel poked from a lower crevasse. 

"I saved your life. That ain't worth nothing?" 

A click sounded inside and the barricaded door opened. The fat man stood at the door with another man I had never seen before. The other was armed with a .22. Both men looked nervous. 

I stepped inside. The two men exchanged glances. There was something there but I was too tired and sore to sort it out. The bar-keep lead me through the deserted bar and up the stairs. I was given the same room. 

"I'll send Amber up. No charge," the fat man said. I was too tired to contradict him. The woman showed up seconds later, still dressed in the torn nightie, a bruise over her right eye. 

Amber began to pull the rag off her thin, dirty torso, but I shook my head. I pulled the bed spread off and said, "Make bandages." I took off my clothes carefully and with Amber's help, removed the filthy splint and washed my broken arm. It was puffy and colored like a peacock. Using the shreds of the bedding, the woman retied the splint and moved on to the rest of my body. She daubed the cuts, removed splinters, wrapped ribs. I looked like Karloff in The Mummy, only worse. 

There was a knock at the door. It had a nervous rap to it though it tried not to be conspicuous. I opened the door a crack, bowie knife in my good hand. The bar-keep without his little friend. He looked anxious, as the girl slipped out and down the hall. "You gotta lotta balls coming here, mister." 

"Would this have something to do with that guy downstairs? 

"He's gone for Hart's men. There's a price on your head." 

"How much?" 

"A brand new rifle." 

"Who is this Hart, anyway? Local warlord?" 

"You might say that. He owns the entire City. And you ain't in his good books." 

"Bully--it's because I killed Bully." 

"You better go. Get the Hell out of Hartland. We'd thought you had. Now, I gave you this room again so's you could slip out the window. There's a stairwell leading from the roof ..." 

"Yah, thanks. I remember." I closed the door behind the fat man. I was in big trouble, which seemed the only way I did things here. So much for a good night's sleep. I was really missing my rifle now. A broken arm and a bowie knife. Big trouble. 

The window was hard to navigate with only one arm. I threw out my pack first then kneeled on the sill and just kind of let myself fall out. The roof was slippery but I crossed quickly, eyes ever open for Man-Bats and Sky-liners. I'd had enough of roofs to last me a lifetime. On the far side was the other stairwell. That would take me to the street. 

The stairs fell down into darkness. I stumbled down the last set. Someone was standing in the doorway. A tall, bald man sipping a beer and playing with a small knife. He looked up at me with a lizard-thin smile and I knew I was dead. Then he simply turned away. For a second I thought I might return to the roof and escape. Footsteps above. I was caught. 

I reluctantly finished the stairs, walked out onto the street. My breath steamed liked a kettle. No one. The street was empty. News travels fast. 

Then I spotted him. He was sitting on an old oil drum. 

Psycho. And he had my rifle. 
 

I looked him over. He seemed older than the last time I saw him. He had a new scar across his forehead, a red and white spidery affair. But the look in his eye was the same: cold and ruthless. 

"So, you're still alive?" he mumbled. I heard a laugh off to my left. The man on the stairs with the shotgun. I didn't know him. It didn't matter. 

I didn't answer. 

"I hear you killed Bully." He waited for a reply. 

"One down, two..." 

There was a man standing behind me. He slammed the butt of his gun into my kidneys. Things went black. I could hear Psycho yelling at someone. 

When I regained my feet, things hadn't changed much. I propped myself against the wall to protect my back but that was all. Psycho was talking again. 

"You always were a pain-in-the-ass, Teacher. A goddamn boy scout." He spit. "So, you know what we're gonna to do with you?" 

I waited silently for sentence. 

"We're going to take you over to that bat-nest over there." He pointed to one of the tallest of the skyscrapers. "We're gonna tie you up and watch the bats eat your face." 

They all laughed this time. I looked only at Psych. He had always been like this. Cruel. Power-hungry. And I never knew why. Even his nick name, Pscyho. He had given it to himself. Not because he was insane, but because it sounded everything he wasn't. He had been so much like me once--and yet driven in another direction. 

Kidney boy shoved me and we moved down the alley. My eyes darted left and right searching for escape. I was going to have to find some way. If I ran, I'd be shot down and (if I was lucky) killed instantly. But knowing Psycho, it would be a leg shot and then the bats. 

As if my imagination had been made real, I heard a rifle shot ring out. Kidney boy exploded next to me, covering my back with blood spots the size of pin-points. I dove for the ground, then rolled behind a fallen garbage can. 

More shots rang out and I heard Shot-gun scream. Psycho cursed, and fired back. Ricochets bounced all along the alleyway. Several rang into the garbage can beside me. I curled up into a ball and waited. 

Someone was standing over me. I kicked out with a lame assault--it was all I had left. 

"Careful, mon," a deep Jamaican voice said. I looked up at the black man from the bar. His grin was as wide as ever. 

He held my rifle by the strap. 

"I think this belongs to you, mon." The rifle came back into my hands for the first time in two days. It felt like Heaven. 

"How did you--?"

 "Your friend left it. He seemed to be in a hurry." The man gave a deep belly-laugh that would have made Santa Claus proud. 

"I can't thank you enough," I began. 

"Think nothing of it, mon. Just returning the favor." He dug in his pocket all retrieved a box. He extended it toward me and my eyes bugged out. It was a box of rifle ammunition. I took it gently. From its weight I could tell that it was full. 

"No, I can't accept this." 

"Plenty more where that came from. Merry Christmas." 

He started to leave. 

"Hey, wait! I don't even know your name." 

"Bengal, mon. Like the tiger." He growled and clawed the air, then laughed. "Got to go, mon. See you around." 

I watched as he walked away. He stopped a distance later and yelled, "Welcome to Our Fair City," in his most mayoral voice. Then he laughed and was gone. 

I lifted the rifle to my shoulder. I looked around and thought of Gino's. I had enough ammo to buy a nice long stay, long enough to heal up some. Then? There was a woman out there somewhere. I wanted to find her. Return her Tarot card to her. Thank her. To ask about the orange peel. And there was still Psycho and Hater. Business to finish. 

It looked like I was going to be staying a while longer. 

Clutching my bruised ribs with my splintered arm, I only hoped that the next three days would prove a little less stimulating. 

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