When I reach my destination, I know it at once. The bottom of humanity's barrel. Two fires in identical, rusted-out trash cans. Black smoke trails spill into the damp air, an acrid infusion of burning waste. A scatter of frail bodies swathed in layers of rags hover listlessly nearby. Further out, leaning against a chunk of concrete wall, more are slumped— broken, or drugged out, or damaged enough to keep from drawing closer to the fire. One man has puckered, pink stumps where his legs should be. A grey-haired woman stares through eyes filmed over with a thick layer of milky white. Here and there, piles of rags identify bodies that may or may not be alive. But surely if they were dead, the others would have stripped them of their belongings by now.
As I approach, I work up a rattle in my throat— subtle— just enough to convince anyone paying attention. Keeping my head ducked, I shuffle into the ranks of the condemned, and try to find a spot where the fire's heat can touch me. I start to settle against the concrete wall, but I've not so much as bent my knees to sit, when another bundle of rags standing by the fire barrels turns and eyes me wildly.
It makes a noise of rage and frustration, moving toward me. Dirt obscures the twisted face, filthy hair frizzing into the eyes, but I think it's a boy— young, skinny, but taller than me. From the distorted expression and insistent, wordless sounds of grievance, I surmise that I've angered someone unbalanced. He rushes toward me, arms flailing. I fall back a step. My fingers grip my metal stick. I make my own noise of rage as I swing for his head.
He skids to a stop, his feet slipping in the rubble. He falls backward. My stick cuts through the air. I take a step toward him, and he scrambles back on his elbows. He flips over and claws his way to his feet, retreating to the furthest barrel of fire, where he glares back at me nervously. I stand my ground a moment, then adjust myself and sit against the concrete wall, eyeing him. My fingers cling to my piece of metal.
No one else challenges me. I scan my surroundings, trying to sum up any other potential threats, but really, I'm so tired that my mind wanders. An old woman catches my eye despite my efforts to avoid her. Her hands are so gnarled they're twice their normal size. I look away, at the ground, at the dark spots where rain drops are hitting the packed earth. I hunch down and pull my rags tighter. Face in knees. This fabric smells like piss. I would recoil, but exhaustion has taken over. I'm weary in every part of myself, inside and out. Before I know it, my eyelids sink shut. I mean to open them, but I don't. Not for a long time.