Movement

Darkness moved across State Street. A sign, Badger Herald, lay on the ground next to a broken door. Through its frame and up a staircase rested the two friends, alone. Brooks spoke:

“You know where we should be going.”

The cigar man looked up. He was listening.

“Langdon is a mistake. We have to cross State to get there, and ever since the Coastie-Greek schism that street is a deathtrap.”

A gun cried once in the distance, a single shot.

“We should forget Great Brother and his war on the Coasties. For all we know the Greeks have already lost.”

The cigar man said nothing. Brooks felt flames rise in his heart.

“We must go to Picnic Point. They are there.”

“No!” The cigar man spoke quietly, but with rage. “The Sconnies are a myth. Picnic Point holds death and nothing more. Come midnight we cross State. I know you doubt me friend, but we will find comfort in the home of Great Brother.”

Outside snow fell.  A silver car passed near the fallen sign and broken door. In it were several women, their pony tails pulled to one side, larger than life handbags resting on their laps. The driver looked up at the window through large sunglasses. She spoke, tasting each word like blood.

“It’s the cigar man.”