Dead Frontier/Issue 116

This is Issue #116 of Dead Frontier, titled ''NYC. ''This is the second issue in Volume 20.

Issue 116 - NYC
Farrah stares up at the man looming over her, unable to hide the look of disgust on her face. But he doesn't seem to care that she's completely disinterested. Sweat beads on his brow and he grunts loudly and obnoxiously with each movement of his hips. His gut and receding hairline only put her off even more. Probably only a few more minutes, she estimates.

And that's all it takes. Three minutes later, and they're sitting side by side on the bed. She clasps her bra back on and he pulls his pants over his protruding belly, struggling to button them. "Thanks, sweetie," he says. He stands, grabs his shirt, and is out the door without another word.

She leans over to her nightstand and pulls open the top drawer. She reaches down and grabs a wad of cash, the last of her savings. Mixed in with the bills are pieces of jewelry--some intact and others just fragments of gold or silver. She counts her money slowly and carefully, sighing with disappointment when she's done.

All she needs is a little more. Just a little more.

This is how her days go. She finds a guy who’s willing to pay a bit more than the rest; she puts on her most charming facade, maybe to get him to up his pay a some more, and gives him the slightest touch on the arm. Sometimes a quick whisper in his ear can get him to cough up a nice watch, or necklace. Something that’ll do well on the market. That’s all it takes, and they’re her naive little toy for the night.

It’s not something she’s proud of. With every glance in the mirror, she’s repulsed, but she buries her own self-loathing as far down as she can. Can’t let it interfere with her pay. And that pay is absolutely essential. Guns are expensive, and if she’s planning to get her revenge anytime soon, she needs to rack up as much cash as she can, as fast as she can.

Her mind drifts to how she let her life deteriorate so quickly. It all started with a woman named Amelia: her sister in some ways, but technically, her best friend from high school. Both hoping to hit it big in the entertainment world, they moved to New York after high school, and the small bit parts and commercial roles seemed to fall right into Farrah’s hands, while Amelia struggled to even get her first speaking part. For about a year, their connections faltered, and as much as they wanted to keep in touch, different endeavors kept them apart again.

They both stayed in New York, however, and they lost touch with most of their family members; as soon as the apocalypse hit, she and Amelia reconnected again, having never been so happy to see each other. They were some of the first few to gain access into the newly constructed New York City Zone, but the promises of prosperity and safety were soon drowned out by the rampant crime in just a few months.

She and Amelia stuck together, as much as they could, their bond growing stronger as they helped each other out, snuck each other any rations or coins they could find. They were as poor as everyone else there, but they provided for themselves as best as they could.

Amelia made the mistake of being too desperate. Hungry for cash, she stole from one of the local dealers; some big-headed Hispanic guy named Andres who tried too hard to be intimidating. It wasn’t hard for him to track her down.

When Andres came banging on their door, Amelia forced Farrah to hide, said she could deal with them. Amelia’s confidence easily shifted onto Farrah, and she complied, concealing herself in a small closet.

And there, she was forced to listen as not only was Amelia assaulted beyond recognition by Andres and one of his friends, but completely defiled and stripped of any dignity she had left before they killed her.

So here she is now, destroying her own self-respect with every guy she drags to bed, just so she can avenge a friend.

She sighs before rising from her bed and walking down a short, narrow hall. This small pathway leads to the rest of the rooms of the tiny apartment the safe zone provided her with: a bedroom, a hall closet, and a bathroom. She pushes open the creaky door to the bathroom and searches the wall for the lightswitch. The fluorescent lights above flash to life, but soon they’re reduced to an annoying flickering.

She pulls the shower curtain aside and turns the knob. Instead of a fresh flow of water like she usually expects, there’s only a drip, and then nothing. Must’ve finally cut off her water.

It only takes a week for Farrah to accumulate the rest. A satchel over her shoulder and a tattered navy jacket--the only thing protecting her from the harsh early-winter winds--she exits her apartment building and starts down the street.

Night must have fallen a few hours ago. It’s pitch black, the only illumination coming from the moon and few dingy streetlights placed along the sidewalks. She makes a few twists and turns along the way, finally ending up in an ominous alleyway. A figure stands at the far end of the alley, the tip of a cigarette the only light she can see. The figure takes a long drag, removes the cigarette, then exhales a good bit of smoke.

The figure freezes at the sight of Farrah, and she steps forward hesitantly. Her heart beats wildly in her chest, and in the silence, the sound of it is only amplified.

“Let me see it all,” the man says. He drops his cigarette to the ground and crunches it under his boot. Slowly, she removes the satchel and hands it to him. He pulls out a tiny flashlight and inspects its contents. “This is good.”

“Is it enough?” she asks.

He pauses. “I can work with this.” He zips up the bag and tosses it on the ground, next to a dumpster. A larger bag also sits on the cement, and he crouches down next to it, doing a similar inspection with his flashlight. It seems like forever, but he pulls out some kind of revolver. He stands, and holds it out to her with two hands. “Colt King Cobra,” he says. “Six round cylinder. Four inch barrel.”

She takes it from him and curses herself for allowing her hands to tremble. Then, he reaches into his jacket and hands her a small, but heavy, box of ammunition. She slides it into her pocket, and from the silence, she can tell they’re done here.

“Nice doing business with you,” he says. She looks him in the face for the first time. A hood conceals most of his face, but she can make out an odd discrepancy in his eyes. One blue, the other dark brown.

She told herself she’d wait a few days to do this, but now that the weapon is in her grasp, she can’t. Tears roll down her cheeks as she approaches Andres’ front door, music blasting from the inside on the otherwise quiet street. She stomps up the steps, revolver in hand and loaded with six bullets. She bangs her fist on the door, impatient and shaking from the cold, paired her boiling fury.

Someone looks out the front window, at the porch. Farrah meets his eyes and sees that it’s Andres’ good friend Matthew, who she knows too well as the man Andres brought along to deal with Amelia. A few seconds later, he’s opening the door, looking down at Farrah from his 6’6” frame.

“The hell do you want?” he asks. His accent is heavy, and a toothpick hangs out of his mouth.

Farrah raises the revolver, and his chest explodes in a spray of red. There’s a vulgar shout from inside the house, and she sees Andres emerge from one of the back rooms, pulling his pants above his waist.

“Holy shit--” he says. Before he can run, she pulls the trigger, and the bullet rips through his neck. There’s a more feminine screaming coming from inside and Farrah enters the house. She walks over to his writhing body and takes a glance into the room. A woman covers her chest with a blanket.

“Shut up!” Farrah shouts at her, and her mouths snaps shut, but her body still trembles uncontrollably. Farrah shifts her focus back to Andres, adjusts her aim to his chest, and fires the last four shots.