"If God dropped acid, would he see people?"

- Steven Wright

13 days earlier,

07:34 a.m.

“Morning Stell,” Tim announced as the door opened, newspaper in his hand.

“Morning,” she replied with a smile. “Thanks for the paper.”

“Least I could do,” he crossed the threshold into the house and left the paper on the living room table as he always did. He had been picking up the weekend paper for the Barbers since the postal services had stopped their weekend deliveries earlier that month. “Where's Clay?”

“He went to the pharmacy to get more Somnidin.”

Breakfast at the Barber's became a weekly routine for Tim. When Howard and Gina Barber learnt of how he ate cup noodles every weekend when his dad went to work, they invited him over for the mornings. The Barbers lived in a small colonial style cape cod, one of many that lined the coastline. They had a small sheltered patio as their dining area from which they had a view of the sea which the two teenagers made their way to. The calm water stretched out over the horizon, cutting the edge of the round world like a floor of lapis. From where they stood, it would not have been hard to imagine that the world was indeed flat.

He was alone with Stella as they stepped onto the deck of the patio, dressed in khaki shorts and the same white hoodie shirt from the day before. The girl wore a denim short and white singlet to counteract the warm morning. She had another of her horror novels in hand.

“Did you guys tell your parents about that thing?” he asked.

“What thing?”

“You know, Clay and his Sin.”

“It's rare that we don't get any wind in the morning,” she sat down on one of the chairs and opened her book.

“I don't think it being a little less windy will surprise me after last night,” he replied, taking a seat himself.

“Really? We're a city by the sea. Not even a little bit curious?”

“I'm not gonna die from there not being any breeze.”

“You could get a heat stroke.”

“I'm not even sweating!” he countered exasperatedly.

“Maybe you have hypohidrosis.”

“You're a really negative person you know?” he paused and surveyed the surrounding. To his annoyance, he was a little intrigued by the lack of wind. “Wait, you're trying to change the subject.”

He saw the corner of her lip lift into a small smile. “Maybe.”

“And what subject might that be?” Matilda Barber, Stella and Clay's mother, stepped out from the living room with a tray of pancakes in hand.

Tim spun around in his seat, slightly surprised by her appearance and thanking luck that she had not heard the whole conversation. “History,” he said, covering up.

Matilda was in her late thirties. Like her son, her hair was bleach white, though she kept it fluff and frilly instead. Stella often jokingly referred to it as the cotton candy hair. Her skin was lightly freckled which drew similarities to chocolate chip cookies. She wore a flower dress with a yellow apron. “Well, it's a good thing Clay's at the library. He'd just fall asleep,” she jabbed at her son's dislike of the class.

Stella looked away from her book to smile at her mother. “He'd fall asleep at the library.”

The woman laughed and set the food down on the table. “Right. Wait awhile and I'll go wake your dad,” she turned to leave.

“Uh... Mrs. Barber?” Tim called out. She spun on her feet, as if dancing. “Thanks for breakfast again.”

“What did I say? You don't ever have to thank us. You're family,” the woman replied with a smile before heading back into the house.

Once he was sure Matilda was out of earshot, he turned to Stella. “You lied to your mother?”

“About?”

“Clay. Pharmacy. Library,” he punctuated each word for effect.

“I didn't lie. He's going to the library after to borrow a book for me,” she replied, not once looking away from her novel.

“So what now? You're just gonna lie for him while he's sick?”

Stella placed her book on the table faced down with the page she read. “Now, I'm getting the paper,” she announced matter-of-factly and went in to the living room.

Though it seemed no different from all the other peaceful weekend start, Tim could not help but feel distracted by the events from the day prior. He had tried to put the matter out of his mind, and failing miserably at it, he ignored it, putting it off as 'something to do later'. His best friend had Sin, the Vashmir Pandemic. Nobody affected by it had been known to survive.

Maybe he's different.

He wanted to think that. It would be nice if Clay was the hero in all the pandemic movies that had taken cinemas as of late. The immune protagonist who would go on to save the world with a vaccine. But life was never like the movies, and he of all knew that the best. He remembered his mother screaming when he was a child, his father shouting, and how he prayed for the Power Rangers or Superman to come and save him from the nightmare.

A speedboat came into view, cutting across the calm ocean, its wave slicing the sea like a plough through snow. There was no wind. Something else nagged at Tim aside from the breeze-less day and lack of modern heroes. Something he missed, something he saw, something he didn't want to know and ignored, as he did with all the horrible things in life. He ignored.

“Tim,” came Stella's voiced from behind.

He stood from his seat, suddenly aware of what he saw that was nagging him. The newspaper he picked up and brought in. The headline which he only glanced. “Yeah?” he turned slowly, the bold title print sprang out at him like a jack-in-the-box.

SOMNIDIN SHORTAGE, PHARMACY OUT

Stella's glare was both fierce and worried, as were her words. “Where's my brother?”

XXX

At night, Smith Street was considered the red-light district of Ridge Valley. Though those who were more familiar with the area, such as the police and frequent bar-goers would know that the labyrinth of alleys behind the street was where the real action laid. With over two dozen bars and rented apartment hotels, the shady underground business goes on 24-7. The interconnected backstreet made illegal activities hard to trace and sting operations difficult to navigate. Overtime, the police had turned a blind eye to Smith Street and its dealings, for the rewards no longer justified the risk or trouble. Occasionally, patrols were sent around the area, but even then, it was mostly a show to calm the public.

Clay walked down the streets in his oversized green 'SKI HAVEN' shirt that covered him like the leafs of a tree. He kept his hands in the pockets of his three quarter shorts, hiding what he had inside by giving the illusion of bulk. It was also a rare occasion as he wore shoes instead of sandals.

He headed for Highway Pup, its neon sign had turned off with the first crack of dawn. A sign on the tinted glass doors read, 'No patrons under 21 years'. Another said 'Closed'. He entered anyway.

The inside of the bar reeked of alcohol and what he assumed to be the stench of vomit coming from the open doors of the bathrooms, floating in on the air-conditioned air. Dim incandescent lamps hung around the walls of the room, their lights barely penetrating the smoky interior. Two burly males in black leather jackets were knocked out cold in a corner booth and another man in a crumpled suit leaned asleep against one of the centre tables, the only patrons left. The bartender was the only one still awake, wiping the cleaning cloth over the marbled surface of the bar table under the only white lamp in the otherwise dark establishment. His white shirt and black vest crisp and stainless. His blonde hair neat and combed back. Tidy as if he had just showered and dressed.

Clay walked up to the bar and the tender looked up. “We're closed kid. And aren't you a little young to be here?”

“Cut the crap. Where's Adam,” Clay replied.

“You know the rules. Appointments only.”

“Make an exception.”

“How about no,” the tender put the cleaning cloth away. His attention now entirely on Clay.

Clay took out his phone and tapped the screen a few times. “How about I call the cops,” he showed the tender the '911' on the screen.

“Go ahead, I've got nothing illegal here.”

Clay grinned sinisterly. “I'm so glad you said that.”

From his pocket he took out a brown paper bag and threw it at the wall to the side. An explosion of white powder burst upon impact, filling up that portion of the room in a white cloud.

The tender was shocked, staring dumbfounded at the wall. “What's that.”

“Make a guess.”

“Is that coke?”

Clay dialled the number, the ringback tone echoing through the bar. For some reason, the sleeping bodies suddenly reminded him of corpses in a crypt, mummies ready to jump him. “Make a guess,” he said again, turning on his phone's speaker so the tender could hear the ring.

“What if I shoot you?”

The tone stopped and a woman picked up the line. “Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?”

Clay could feel his grin widening. “Try it.”

He and the tender exchanged glares, neither blinking. He knew the man did not keep guns at the bar, as it was illegal to do so in Ridge Valley. The bar was used as a front to direct 'customers' to the real black market and was the first line of defence against police raid. Keeping anything against the law would have defeated the purpose of the patsy establisment.

“Fine,” the tender finally relented, turning his eyes away to the powder on the floor.

“Fine what?” Clay said.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” the operator asked.

“Room thirty-nine,” the tender said.

Clay brought the phone to his ear and turned of the speaker. “Sorry,” he said to the operator. “Wrong speed dial,” and hung up.

When Clay put down the phone the tender continued. “Hotel Uno.”

“Now that wasn't so hard.

The sun was above the horizon line by the time Clay left the bar. The streets were quiet and empty, with only a couple of cars parked at some of the other bars. His watch told the time was just past 07:45 a.m. A time backed up by his elongated shadow stretching down the pavement. Smith Streets' layout consisted of an entire road lined with bars and small shops to the sides. Apartment hotels were constructed behind the front shops. Small parking lots were located at each of the street corners and Hotel Uno was located behind the Irish bar two blocks down. A desolate-looking, greying and moss grown building, Hotel Uno was slated for demolition later that year. At ten stories high and a hundred years in age, it was also the tallest building in the district as well as the oldest.

Clay walked down the streets towards the hotel, a red sports car zooming past him, its engine roaring even as it turned at the junction with its wheels screeching, vanishing with distance. There was no wind. He headed down into the alleyway and entered the street to the building. The white paint was peeling and moss had spread to a large part of the structure's base. He went through the entrance and an electronic bell rang his presence.

The lobby was of meagre size. Aside from the one reception counter that took up half the room, there was a small common area with a few couches. Past the reception was the fork corridor that led to the first floor rooms and the elevator up. The receptionist, a bald man, did not bother to look up from whatever it was that had his attention on his desk, which suited the teen just fine. Clay passed the counter and called the elevator. The door opening immediately as it was already on the first floor. He entered and hit the third floor button. Ryan Cabrera's On The Way Down played in through the elevator radio.

Exiting on the third floor, he found himself in a single long corridor that extended both left and right. A copper plate screwed into the wall in front of the elevator directed him left to room 9. The corridor down had 2 rooms on each side, with a final room at the end. The second door on the left was room 9. The door was ajar so he pushed through into the corridor and into the smoky room.

“Clay Barber,” came the voice of drug dealer Adam. “You continue to intrigue me kid.”

From the entrance, there was a bathroom to the right before the room opened up to the living room. The blinds of the room was drawn but enough of the morning light shone through to dimly light the area. The room had no couches, tables or television and where the furnitures once occupied had dozens of cardboard boxes stacked up almost to the ceiling. A lone desk was placed in front of the window, where the light silhouetted Adam's figure. The bedroom and kitchen were through two doors on the left. Neither the ceiling nor desk light were on. Clay closed the door behind him.

Beside the dealer, Adam had two bouncers with him, neither which Clay recognized. The two men stood to with their arms folded, their only acknowledgement of Clay's presence was their intense stare.

“What's up Scarface?” he greeted the muscular African American with a prominent scar running down his cheek, despite having his dark green hoodie hiding most of his face. To the equally muscular but smaller sized Mexican, who wore a white singlet that showed off his heavily tattooed arms. “Tatuage Hombre,” he mocked in an accent.

Adam stood from his seat at his desk. The man in his early forties was not what was expected of street dealers stereotypes. Common thugs who were high and wise cracking. Instead, he carried the air similar to those of fictional crime lords from books and shows. He had his onyx black hair styled back, shimmering with the result of probably dozens of hair products. He wore a crisp black suit and tie with a maroon inner shirt. Though his face was rough with the residues of early fights, he did not look thuggish, but rather, wise.

“You blackmailed a bar you knew was ran by a gang, waltz into a drug den, and insults two man twice your size without batting an eye,” Adam was skilled in keeping his voice almost monotonous, making it hard to catch the feeling behind his words. In the case then, impressed, or anger. “If you didn't have Sin, I'd say you have a death wish. What brings you here?”

“I need more Somnidin,” Clay locked eyes with the older man.

“Stock's low, price's high. I've got lots of bidders and I highly doubt you can match them.”

“Then name a price.”

Adam walked up to Clay, staring down on the teen, their eyes never leaving each other. “You're something else kid. You stare eye to eye with men twice your age, twice your size,” he pulled back his jacket to reveal a pistol at his belt. “Men that are armed. But I think you knew that. Walking like you've got no equal in the world. I could use some runners like you. Open a shop at your school, cut you a profit, and all the Somnidin you need.”

“Not interested. Now, price.”

“Pity. Give a kid like you a few years, you'd go far in our 'business',” Adam gestured to his goons with his head. From one of the box, Tattoo took out a bottle of the medicine and handed it to his boss. “Five hundred per bottle. On the spot.”

“Discount.”

“Oh, you're desperate. First time I'm hearing you beg. Maybe I'm wrong about you. Six hundred.”

“I see how this is,” Clay said, stepping away from the man. In one swift motion, he reached under his oversized shirt and from his belt, pulled out a Model 24 'stick' grenade. He wrapped his fingers around the fuse cord. “How bout this, drugs, or we die.”