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Party Poison’s face glowed green in the light of the OPEN sign, shining in the window of the gas station. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Whenever he moved his head, the world spun dizzily as if he had run around in circles. A stuffy fogginess clouded his mind.
He glanced over at Kobra Kid, who stood several feet away with the town spiritualist. He laughed and nodded as she spoke. Anger boiled inside him: a sloppy, sinking fury, deepened by the alcohol he drank at the bar. He turned away and fixed coldly on the gas station door. Who had dragged him away from the bar as soon as he heard the recycler was in town? Poison gripped the toolbox in his hands, his mouth curling with bitterness.
Suddenly the door swung open and a woman stepped out with an empty sack slung over her shoulder. Poison stormed inside the gas station, letting the door slam shut behind him. The recycler, a Japanese woman in a white suit, was snapping on a pair of rubber gloves. Tommy Chow Mein had pulled up a chair beside the desk. A leatherbound journal printed with lines of numbers lay in front of him.
The cash register, a box of trading cards, and other items had been removed from the desk to make room for the plastic crates. Each crate held a small pile of a different material: broken glass, aluminum foil, crushed soda cans, shards of plastic, styrofoam, cardboard, bits of paper. A space had been cleared in the middle. Poison dropped a bag of cans on the desk, then opened the toolbox, revealing bits of material that glittered like treasure.
“Is that everything?” Takara said.
Poison scratched his hair. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s everything.”
Takara took a crushed can from the bag. Ghoul had spent the previous night crushing the cans on the garage floor. She held it gingerly in her gloved hand, studying it like a priceless jewel.
“Keep,” she said, dropping it in the crate. Chow Mein marked it down in the journal.
She picked up another can and turned it over. A few drops of old soda trickled into the bag. She winced, then dropped it in the crate.
“Keep,” she said.
Poison watched dimly as she sorted through the cans, then the materials in the toolbox. He vaguely recalled what Chow Mein had said about her. She worked in a recycling plant in Battery City. Every six months, she illegally snuck out to the Zones to collect more materials and produce a bigger paycheck.
She picked out shards from the toolbox with a pair of tweezers, then dropped them onto a pair of brass scales. Chow Mein wrote down each measurement. When the toolbox was empty, she pulled off her gloves and glanced down at the journal.
“How much is it?” she said. “About six carbons?”
“Six carbons,” Chow Mein said. “Yes.”
“That’s what I thought.”
She opened her wallet, revealing a rainbow of carbons--more carbons than Poison had ever seen in one place. As she handed him the money, he felt heavy with longing, like overripe fruit that weighed down its branch.
“Thank you,” Poison said.
“Have a better day,” she said automatically.
Poison nodded wearily, then crammed the carbons in his wallet and headed out with the bag and toolbox under his arm. When he stepped outside, Kobra looked up from his conversation. He held up a finger as if to say Just give me a minute, then turned back to the spiritualist.
In an instant, the anger rushed back in full force. He stormed down the sidewalk and yanked open the Trans Am’s door, then tossed the bag and toolbox in the backseat. He was about to jump inside and slam the door when someone coughed behind him.
Poison turned around, the world spinning around him. A man stepped out of the darkness. He wore a maroon jacket dotted with studs like silver stars. For a moment, Poison thought he was hallucinating. Then the studs glinted in the yellowish light from the gas station, solid and real. Only one gang wore jackets like that. He was a member of the Blood Moons.
Poison staggered back, suddenly dizzy with fear. He reached blindly for his gun, but he couldn’t remember which leg was strapped with the holster. Was it the left? No! The right? He stumbled backward and nearly collapsed on the pavement.
“It’s okay,” the man said, raising his hand. “It’s cool. I just stopped by to drop off some bottles.”
His head spinning, Poison gripped the car for support. His head screamed at him to jump in the driver’s seat, snatch up Kobra, and speed away. But he couldn’t drive in this state. Oh God, why did I have those drinks?
“I just wanted to ask you something,” the man said. “The guys and I found some old bottles in a ditch off Route Greenberg. I need to know if that girl’ll take them.”
“I don’t know,” Poison said. “Go ask her.”
“You see how many people’s in that line?” he said. “I’m not waiting all night. Just look at these and tell me if you think she’ll take them or not.”
He untied the bag and held it open. Poison avoided his eye. His heart raced as he imagined a gun, a knife, a bag of old military grenades. The severed head of a rival gang member.
“C’mon,” the man said, his voice rising. “Just give me a second.”
Don’t piss him off. Poison steadied himself, then glanced inside the bag. Then he relaxed. The bag was full of green and amber glass bottles, gleaming in the sickly light.
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think she’ll take them.”
“You do? Good.” He pulled the drawstring and tied the bag shut. “I didn’t want to wait in that line all night for nothing.”
“Yeah. I get it, man.”
After a pause, Poison turned back to the car. Must’ve just been passing through, he thought. He had started to climb inside when something grabbed the back of his collar and jerked him back like a fish caught on a fishhook. Poison yelped with shock and stumbled back. The man grabbed his arm and started to pull him away from the gas station.
“Help!” Poison shouted. “Help!”
He whirled around and blindly swung his fist, but missed and dizzily staggered to the side. The world spun as if he were hurtling through the air. Suddenly a hard-knuckled fist collided with his face. Poison yelped as white-hot pain shot through his nose. The world reeled around him in a flash of heat, darkness, and confusion. Then the ground smacked against his head with a thud. Before he could catch his breath, a pair of hands grabbed his ankles and started dragging him across the pavement.
“Hey!” Kobra shouted in the distance. “Hey!”
Footsteps pounded against the pavement. Before the man could react, Kobra was upon him in a blast of fury. He smashed his fist into the man’s face. The man reeled back and dropped Poison’s ankles. Then he pounced on Kobra. Cries erupted from the line in front of the station as the two men tussled in the darkness.
Poison groggily lifted his head, pain shooting through his face, then scrambled backward against the pavement like a crab. The fight raged on in a whirlwind of heat and fury. Shouts and yelps filled the air. Then there was a violent tussle and shriek, like a furious writhing cat, and a yellow light ripped through the air like a glow stick. For a second, Kobra’s frame was illuminated in the darkness. Poison frantically looked around, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
Kobra fired his ray gun again. The laser caught the man’s heels, sparking against the pavement like firecrackers. He turned and fired back at Kobra, who jumped back. A red light exploded in a shrub and fizzled out. Kobra fired again, but the man’s footsteps were fading into the distance. There was a pause. Poison waited with bated breath. When nothing happened, Kobra holstered his gun, breathing hard, and turned back to the station.
A few minutes later, Poison sank into the passenger’s seat as Kobra started the engine. Kobra’s hair was tossed around his face. Blood dripped from his nose, and a bruise darkened on his jaw. Poison was hit with a sudden wave of guilt. How could he have been so angry with him before? Tears prickled in his eyes as he fished a bandana from his pocket.
“Here,” he said. When Kobra didn’t look up, Poison patted his arm. “Here. Take this.”
Kobra looked up as if he had forgotten he was there. Then he took the bandana. With a loud snort, he blew his nose, then frowned at the patch of blood. Hardness settled into his face. As he pulled out onto the road, Poison’s mind swarmed with apologies. The headlights flashed across the road and they started down the highway, the gas station lights shrinking to pinpoints behind them.
---
Poison shrugged off his jacket, then slipped off his boots and lay down on the bed. From the motel bathroom came the sounds of Kobra speaking into his transmitter. His voice suddenly rose, then dropped off again. Poison settled back against the bed and closed his eyes. Kobra’s voice was like a dull murmur, lulling him to sleep like the hum of insects.
He was about to fall asleep when the bathroom door opened. Poison opened his eyes, then shielded them from the ceiling light with his hand. Kobra jammed his transmitter in his pocket and collapsed into a chair beside the bed.
“It’s like I thought,” Kobra said. His voice was nasally from his clogged nose. “He crossed gang lines. The Wildflowers and somebody else are going to track him down. The Moons had a truce with a couple of gangs, but he wandered off and broke it.”
Poison was too weary to do anything but nod.
“D doesn’t think the Moons are going to come after us,” Kobra said. “He said we can head back in the morning. That guy really fucked up the agreement. If the Moons attack us, it’ll probably start a gang war.”
“Oh yeah?” Poison said.
“Yep.”
Kobra leaned back in the chair. After a few minutes of silence, he slipped off his boots and jacket. He pulled on a black sweater to ward off the cool air.
“Well, I’m going to bed,” he said. “You want me to turn the lamp on?”
“No,” Poison said. “You can leave it off.”
Kobra turned off the light, plunging them into darkness. The mattress springs creaked as he climbed into bed. They lay for a while in silence. The only light came from a strip of light under the door.
“Hey,” Poison whispered.
“Yeah?” Kobra said.
Poison twisted his hands above the sheet. “I’m so sorry about this, Kid,” he whispered.
Kobra sighed heavily. Poison could almost see him closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.
“No,” Kobra said. “Don’t apologize.”
“I shouldn’t have had those drinks. My reactions were off, I couldn’t see straight--”
“No. Don’t apologize, man. Please.”
Poison fell silent. Kobra grabbed his bandana from the bedside table and blew his nose with a clogged snort. Then he felt around until he patted Poison’s wrist.
“Do the prayer,” he said.
“What?” Poison said.
“C’mon. Do the prayer.”
Poison touched the prayer beads on his wrist. Then he brought his hand to his chest and took the tiny wooden cross that hung from the beads. As he ran through the prayer, he touched each bead on the bracelet, quietly whispering the words.
Sacred Witch, guardian of the desert,
Protect us from the wickedness of the world.
Whenever evil crosses our paths,
Give us the strength to overcome.
Whenever evil enters our hearts,
Banish it in the name of Jesus Christ.
Keep us from the temptations of day,
Help us comfort others in the endless night.
In the name of the Witch and the Eternal Current,
Amen.
As he repeated the prayer, Kobra seemed to relax against the mattress, as if the stress were draining away. Poison continued to whisper the prayer into the dark room, as black as a void. Finally, Kobra slipped his hand around his wrist as he reached for the beads. Poison took his hand and squeezed it. Peacefulness settled in the room, and he closed his eyes.