Ascending the Boneyard by C. G. Watson Page B

She liked having the company, I could tell, even though she never said it. I guess by then she was too used to keeping all her thoughts to herself.
    I dig into my pocket, fish out the blackbird feather, flip it between my fingers. I left today without knowing where Devin was. I’m not saying it doesn’t matter; it matters. But when I finally reach Turk’s lair, when I kill that hostage-taking sonofabitch, it’ll undo all the mistakes I made, and Devin won’t need me to protect him like that anymore. He’ll go back to being the emo skateboarding, arm-punching, cheesy-snack-stealing punk he always was, and everything will be exactly the way it should be.
    When I close my eyes again, I see the blood schussing through my veins like this subway car, fueled by anger and no small dose of fear.
    They told me to save it. They’re giving me another chance. I have to get it right this time, even if it kills me.
    I pull out my phone just to give my nervous hands something to do, realize I can’t check anything—my apps are going haywire, random-flashing the icons on my wall screen. Doesn’t that just figure. Nothing’s fixed right now; nothing is static. Even time is meaningless now that I’m in the Boneyard; never mind that I can still hear it tick-tick-ticking right through my headphones.
    The end is near.
    The words flash bright neon green above my head.
    An unexpected vibration cuts straight through the jarring chaos of the subway. Shocked, I quick pull up the message.
    Time means nothing.
    â€œWell, that’s helpful,” I say.
    Time unused melts into pools of regret.
    Swell.
    â€œWhat ever happened to The world beneath will weep blood ?” I say out loud. Weep blood, my ass. I guess if you want to get technical, the walls of the station were kind of “bleeding,” but that was just a screen trick, if you ask me. Any moron could see it was condensation making some centuries-old funk run down the tiles. Not blood at all—just vaguely blood like .
    Haze has been sound asleep all this time, but the piercing wail of metal on metal rips through the car as we careen to a stop, and he sputters back into consciousness.
    He pulls the face mask down under his chin.
    â€œWhere are we?”
    â€œCinderella’s castle,” I say, throwing my bag over my shoulder.
    The car spasms to a stop and the door wheezes open. I follow Haze outside just as the first dim light of morning bleaches the horizon.
    The truth is, I don’t know where we are. But I do know without even looking that the subway car is already gone.
    I fully expect Haze to fire an Uzi round of questions at me, but he doesn’t. We just start walking down the narrow, deserted street, lined with half-dead trees and decrepit, abandoned buildings whose busted-out windows lie shattered under our feet. The crunch of debris against concrete is the only sound we hear as we kick our way through piles of twisted window frames, chunks of Sheetrock and plywood, two-by-fours sprouting rusted nails, a decaying bird carcass lying in the gutter.
    Time unused melts into pools of regret.
    â€œI’d kill for a Mountain Dew,” I blurt out.
    â€œCoffee. Same here.”
    Even so, we pass several convenience stores and diners without ever stopping to go in. Most of the places don’t even look open.
    I’m starting to second-guess the decision to come down here without the smallest brigade. I’m not talking about Haze. Haze is my man. He’s my shit-caller. I mean, the guy calls me out on my shit at every single turn. But he can’t crush a tank on my behalf, or take out a roach mob or cause max damage when the time comes. Haze doesn’t know the rules of engagement here.
    The road widens and the negative space around us begins to fill in—run-down cars, more empty buildings, brown-gray daylight.
    Around a corner, Haze and I stop short in unison, let our gaze slide up the length of the