Chapter Text
Her first day as Crank was spent at the bar.
Izzy grasped a dusty beer bottle in one hand, the other palm pressed protectively to her stomach. The bite mark had swollen to the size of a dinner plate, both inside and out, and each time she moved she could feel the bloated tissue rubbing up against her ribcage. The skin around the wound had turned a nasty shade of green, a few pus-filled pustules dotting the edge. She’d tried digging out the infected flesh - maybe that would slow the spread of the poison - but everybody knew that you couldn’t outrun the Flare.
She took the last sip of beer, tossing the bottle to the sandy ground. Better to give in to the Flare; let the virus run its course, than to try all those fancy medications that people pulled out of their asses. Oh look! Goat’s milk and chicken piss! Purges all symptoms within forty-eight hours or your money back! Upgrade to our deluxe package - a sprinkle of pepper - and be completely cured of this absolutely uncurable virus!
Izzy ran a gloved hand over her face, smearing dirt and sweat down her crooked nose. The 24-7 bar had been surprisingly empty for a few hours, save the lone couple in the corner who had been eating each other’s faces as long as she’d been here. Green-tinged moonlight was beginning to peek through the boarded-up windows. A half-asleep bartender stared blankly at a flickering neon sign that read: Beer! Booze! Boobs!
A rotting corpse acted as the doorstop. Izzy’d nearly tripped on it on her way in. The eye sockets were empty - picked clean by crows, and there was a gaping hole in its chest, crusted with dried purple blood.
Leaning her face on the cool wood of her table, Izzy let her drunken mind wander. An off-key rendition of ‘Yellow Submarine’ was being sung somewhere down the street; probably a group of past-Gones experiencing their last bout of happiness. They said always Cranks seemed the happiest right before they died. How ironic.
We all live in a yellow submarine!
A yellow submarine!
A yellow fucking submarEEN!
Izzy found herself quietly singing along - after all, it was the only song that ever played on the radio, if you were lucky enough to have one. Izzy’d only managed to hold onto her scavenged one for a year before the batteries ran out. There weren’t even any towers around. No one knew who, or what was controlling the invisible radio stations, or why they even had radio frequency in the first place.
She checked her cracked watch. It was nearly eleven, which was about the time of night that you started to see some real Cranks. Izzy sat up and sighed, rolling out her stiff shoulders. The bartender didn’t even notice as she swiped a bottle of beer on her way out - his eyeball was hanging out of its socket.
The night was surprisingly cool, which you didn’t get often living in the Scorch. A dry breeze whistled down the empty alley. Izzy pulled her wind blasted coat tighter around her, not interested in getting sand all under her skin.
The skeletons of skyscrapers loomed overhead like the walls of a huge, spiraling maze. It was easy to get lost in the back alleys of the city, especially in the Booze Sector. Once a Crank entered Crank City, it was incredibly rare to see them leave. Although there was no way in hell that Izzy would dub any Crank as her family, there was something about the emptiness of the outside world that made it impossible to leave.
Maybe it was the thought of traversing the sunbaked Scorch. Maybe it was the knowledge that there were people out there who would kill you if you got too close. Or maybe, it was knowing that Crank City had enough to get you by until your inevitable end, and you could die on your own terms, surrounded by people who were going through the same horrible thing you were.
Izzy dug a hand in her pocket, pulling out her last mothball-covered cigarette and lighter. She stepped to the side and leaned against a crumbling wall, cupping her gloved hands to her face as she carefully lit the cigarette.
The madcap carolers had gone silent - probably entered the same rundown bar she’d just left. Izzy took a drag from the cigarette, reveling in the newfound silence.
The pain in her side had been reduced to a dull throb. Izzy gently felt under her coat, running her fingers over the mess of mangled flesh. She hadn’t been able to scrap up any bandages - all she owned was her coat, jeans, and a pair of tattered boots.
It was pathetic, actually.
Her coat was strung together with patches of denim and faded red leather, threads hanging from every seam. The sandblasted jeans she wore were two sizes too large, and her boots three sizes too small. It was stupid to think of aesthetics, especially when her life would be over by next month, but Izzy couldn’t help but feel a touch of shame whenever she saw her matted locks of hair in the reflection of a window.
Perhaps it was her humanity shining through, her innate sense of vanity. She wasn’t fully Gone yet-
Izzy glared up at the moon, barely visible through the thick layer of smog that hung over the city. The fact that she even had to think about whether she was human or not was damn infuriating. Why even bother? Why couldn’t her death be instantaneous? It was marvelous how Cranks managed to hold on for so long even after their sense of self had been banished to the slaughterhouse.
Whoever thought the Flare would be a funny idea better have gotten their fucking raise.
Tearing her eyes away from the moon, Izzy huffed and pushed off the wall. She began to trudge south, towards BJ’s place in the ‘Beans’ Sector. The Cranks were far less populous on the southern side of the city, and Old Man BJ was the closest thing she could call a friend out here.
. . . . .
“Who the fuck is it?” BJ croaked, his voice gravely from years of sketchy tobacco.
“It’s Izz,” she said, her accent shining through in her irritability. It’d taken her nearly an hour to get to the abandoned hotel, and her feet ached something awful. Not to mention the pain from the bite mark was starting to come back in full force.
BJ whipped the door open, his beady black eyes scanning the hallway anxiously. “What do you want?” he hissed; a string of white hair caught in his mouth.
“Let me in, BJ,” Izzy spat, not bothering to lower her voice. The hallway was devoid of any life, besides a single fly buzzing around a rusty lantern on the wall. All other squatters, if any, were either fast asleep or just plain dead in their suites.
BJ narrowed his eyes, licking his lips nervously. He seemed to teeter on the edge of letting Izzy in or pulling out the pistol in his pocket and shooting her point-blank. He eyed her up and down, examining her raggedy state.
“Fine!” he whisper-yelled, his bushy eyebrows twitching angrily. “But this is the last fucking time, you hear me!” He turned on his heel and disappeared in the dingy suite, a shock of white hair bobbing through the shadows. Izzy rolled her eyes and followed the tiny man, carefully shutting the door behind her.
BJ and a few others were a band of none-Cranks who lived in the wrecked hotel, though he refused to admit if they were ‘Munies. Crank City wasn’t just a mass of looney zombies; it was also oasis to Scorch dwellers. Izzy herself had found refuge on the south side many years ago, meeting BJ when she was about nine. He’d let her room with him, showing her the ins and outs of the city - but the older she got, it seemed the less he wanted to do with her.
It was evident that BJ was letting himself go. Empty cans of beans littered the living room, knocking into each other whenever Izzy took a step. The whole place smelled of mildew and sweat, and she could hear BJ’s panting breaths as he fumbled through the kitchen, muttering something about a box of matches.
The small room suddenly blazed to life as BJ lit a candle - the same massive wax candle he’d been using for ten years. It was down to maybe an inch and a half now. BJ’d always said, ‘When that candle runs out, my candle runs out.’
He stared at her creepily from across the room, hair sticking out in every direction. He’d lost a ton of weight since she’d last seen him - his eyes seemed to sink into their sockets and his cheekbones were probably now sharper than his tongue.
He pinched an old cigar from the counter and lit it with the candle. “Wanna tell me why you’re back, or ya just gonna stare at me all fucking night?” he barked, stuffing the smoldering cigar in his mouth.
Izzy said nothing, a frown frozen on her face. She wasn’t sure where to start - only that she felt on edge and wanted to be back.
“Tell me some news,” she mustered, taking a seat. The old velvet couch squeaked under her weight, one of the rusty springs poking up through the cushion. BJ rolled his eyes and ambled to the living room, dodging trash piles that were nearly taller than him. He never missed a chance to gossip.
“There’s some new bastards in town,” he muttered, taking a drag from his cigar. Though he never left his dilapidated suite, BJ mysteriously knew everything that was going on within a five-mile radius. “Heard they came in this mornin’.”
Izzy hummed in acknowledgement, letting his words wash over her dejectedly. She wasn’t really listening, only letting the low timbre of his voice lull her back to calm.
“Heard they’re a band of fuckin’ ‘Munies. Dunno what the hell they think they’re doin’ in Crank City. If you ask me…”
Izzy absentmindedly pressed a hand to her abdomen, a fresh wave of pain suddenly shooting through her torso. God, how she wished things could go back to how they were before, when she was living peacefully with BJ, and she wasn’t slowly turning into a half-dead monster-
“-lookin’ for the Right Arm.”
She shot upright.
“What?”
BJ huffed grumpily. “Yeah. Heard they interrogated Marcus but couldn’t get shit outta him. Serves them right for messin’ with us, damn ‘Munies.”
Izzy didn’t comment on the blatant hypocrisy. “The fuck do they need the Right Arm for?!” she spat, agitation lacing her words.
“Hell if I know!” BJ snapped. “Who the fuck do you think I am, a psychic or some shit?!”
Izzy ignored him, fear lacing down her spine. If there was anyone who knew anything about her past it was fucking Marcus - and knowing that son of a bitch he would’ve ratted her out as soon as he was given the chance.
‘…they interrogated Marcus but couldn’t get shit outta him.’
Bull. Shit.
Anyone with half a brain, deteriorated or not, knew that Marcus was a two-faced asshole who would stop at nothing to save his sorry hide. Izzy bit her lip, determined not to let her emotions spill.
God, why did it have to be Marcus?!
“You gonna fucking say something? Ya just gonna stare off into space like a fucking Crank all goddamn night?!”
Izzy stiffened.
“Oh, God…” BJ whispered. The couch creaked as he stood up. “You fucking didn’t…”
The morbid silence was answer enough. BJ let out a yell of frustration, stuffing his wrinkly fingers into his mouth.
“God, you’re so fucking stupid!! I told you not to go north!! I told you! What did I fucking say?!!” He hurled an empty can of soda against the wall, leaving a crack against the plaster. “God!!”
Another wave of pain seized her insides. Izzy doubled over with a whimper, her intestines feeling like they were being shoved out the hole in her side. BJ scoffed.
“So what?! You’re a Crank now? Is that it? I suppose you just came back to whine, didn’t you?! Came back for my pity? You thought I’d let your sorry ass live with me again, didn’t you-”
“Shut up!!” she screamed, spittle flying from her mouth.
BJ fell silent, staring at her with a mixture of rage and frustration. Izzy could see tears beginning to well in his beady eyes. She suddenly felt like a little girl again, sniffling over a scraped knee as BJ stood in the kitchen with his arms crossed.
She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her cheeks began to warm. “I just- it’s just that-”
BJ huffed, placing a wizened hand on her shoulder.
A moment passed in silence. The room was beginning to lighten as dawn approached.
Izzy tilted her head, noticing her dusty crayon drawing of BJ still on the wall. The colors hadn’t faded.
BJ ruffled in his pocket, mumbling incoherently. He pulled out a small brown bottle, covered with lint.
“Iodine,” he muttered, slowly sitting down beside her. The couch groaned under their combined weight.
Izzy’s heart swelled with gratitude, a soft smile poking at her lips.
“Grab the bandages, will ya? Make yourself useful for once,” he said drily.
Izzy grinned at the inevitable sarcasm. She reached behind the back cushion for the emergency first aid kit that was always hidden, pulling out a tattered roll of bandages.
. . . .
It was nearly noon when the first knock at the door came.
Izzy sat up with a splutter, whipping her head around for the source of the noise. She’d fallen asleep on BJ’s couch; the old man conked out in his filthy excuse of a bedroom. Daylight was streaming in through the smudged and dusty windows, the heat of the midday sun already festering.
The knock came again, this time sharper than the last. Izzy groaned loudly and threw the ratty quilt off her legs, wincing as a dull pain shot through her side. The bandages prevented her from moving too much, meaning she had to stagger to the door with a hand helplessly clutched to her aching abdomen. She stepped in a pile of yellowed newspapers as she limped, the crackling noise probably alerting everyone in the building.
Izzy flung open the door with a hiss, brown hair falling in her eyes. She whipped her head around a few times, her vision still blurry from sleep. “Who the hell is it?!”
“Hola, mi hermana.”
Izzy froze, met face to face with the rusty barrel of Jorge’s infamous shotgun.
“Fuck!”
She grabbed the door and whirled it shut with all her might. Jorge caught it with the gun, pressing the door back open. Izzy struggled for a moment, letting Jorge’s pressure build, before suddenly letting it go.
Jorge fell to the suite floor with a thump, cursing loudly. Izzy scrambled over him and darted out of the apartment, her feet thumping against the mildewy carpet as she dashed down the hallway.
Someone poked their head out of their room. “What the devil do you think you’re doing at this time of day?!”
Izzy ignored them, taking a sharp right turn towards the elevator bank. She could hear Jorge beginning to chase after her, yelling something in broken Spanish.
The elevators had been broken down ever since the first solar flares; the cars frozen in place on the ground floor. But the empty shafts were still unblocked - when she was a kid Izzy used to scale the walls again and again, racing BJ.
Jorge was getting closer, a couple of shots firing from his gun. Izzy didn’t bother to duck, knowing that there was a good chance of her slipping and not being able to get back up.
Seizing the wall with one hand, Izzy hurled herself into the next left turn, straight into an empty elevator shaft. She flailed blindly in the darkness for a few moments, suspended in midair. Panic gripped her chest - she remembered the handhold being right there-
Her stomach dropped as she began to fall down-
And caught herself on a rail.
Izzy let out a breath as she swayed in the darkness. She could hear a couple of gunshots ring out through the hallway upstairs and a few screams. Swinging her other arm up to grasp the rusty handrail, Izzy frantically felt around for a foothold.
Jorge’s footsteps were shaking the walls, making it hard to hold on as she scrambled from rung to rung. Izzy spat out a mouthful of dust, keeping her eyes on the gaping doorway from which she’d came.
BJ’s suite was on the fourth floor, meaning that she’d have to climb three stories down before she could escape through the lobby. Knowing Jorge, he’d probably have a handful of starving Cranks scattered throughout the ground floor.
Izzy yelped as one of the handrails came loose, spraying chunks of rocks into her face. She quickly dropped to the one below, her heart pounding in her chest. A gunshot rang out over her head, the bullet exploding into dust as it collided with the concrete walls. Izzy pressed herself flat against the wall, biting her lip to stay silent.
“Think you can run, hermana?!”
Izzy cursed under her breath, practically jumping to the next rung. Hand, foot, hand, foot…only twenty-two more to go…
“Climb back up and I won’t blow your brains out!”
He was bluffing. The elevator shaft was pitch black, the only way to traverse it was by muscle memory-
A bullet whizzed by her ear, ruffling through her hair. She swallowed her scream, picking up the pace as adrenaline coursed through her veins.
Fuck.
Another bullet, this time grazing her hand. Izzy shrieked, her hand instinctively letting go of the rail as if it’d burned her. Another bullet, tearing a hole in the arm of her coat. Another one, ricocheting off the wall and catching her hair. Another one, shooting straight through the hand that was locked on the rung.
Izzy flailed around in the darkness, gravity pulling her back. Her feet left the foothold, and she was weightless for a moment, bullets whizzing around her and her hair was in her eyes and her heartbeat was thumping in her ears-
Her thrashing hand smacked into something thin and hard. Izzy gasped, reaching towards it again, scrabbling for a hold.
The elevator cables-
Izzy seized onto the metal rope, but it did nothing to stop her fall. She slid down the cable at breakneck speed, the friction tearing through her gloves. Sparks flew overhead as bullets bounced off of the metal, jerking the cable.
The elevator car came up earlier than expected. Izzy smashed into the roof of the rickety box, the shock making her knees buckle. She lay there for a moment, gasping, the pain in her hands not registering quite yet-
The shaft had gone silent. Izzy narrowed her eyes, peering through the darkness, but no more bullets came her way. Either Jorge had run out or-
Her eyes widened, realization making her stomach grow cold. Jorge was taking the stairwell, coming to meet her.
Izzy rolled over onto her stomach, wrenching the elevator’s emergency hatch open. She had to get out of here before Jorge got downstairs; she wouldn’t be able to hide under the cover of darkness any longer.
She dropped to the floor of the elevator, ignoring the pain in her knees and the rotted skeleton in the corner. The doors were wide open, frozen in place, and the crumbling lobby was awash in sunlight. Izzy whipped her head around, searching for the Cranks.
A massive chandelier was lying in a heap on the ground, a concierge station was covered in graffiti, and shreds of a landscape painting were scattered around the lobby. Izzy furrowed her brows.
There weren’t any Cranks in sight.
But Jorge was probably on the second story by now, Izzy noted, eyeing the stairwell situated across the lobby. Fishing for the knife in her pocket, she sprinted towards the once-glass doors, now just empty frames.
Her feet pounded against the cracked tiles, each step sending a wave of pain resonating through her knees. Her breath came fast, and her chest burned; the adrenaline was beginning to wear off.
Jorge yelled something in Spanish, the sound echoing across the empty lobby. Izzy put on a burst of speed - about five meters away from the doors-
Something barreled into her, knocking the wind out of her.
Her head cracked against the tile, stars exploding in her vision.
The last thing she saw before she passed out was the face of a young woman, staring at her with a hint of recognition in her eyes.