January
by Beau Cameron
The wall scraped against their palm. They leaned against it, letting the brick dig into their back. Their limbs were heavy, a bowling ball resting in their gut unsteadying them, dragging them down. A fog had settled over their mind, casting the world in a gray blue light.
“N-Not...y-y-yet.” Their teeth chattered, chilled to the bone but skin warm to the touch. Droplets of blood spilled over their lips, staining the ground red as they coughed. They tried to wipe their mouth, but their arms were lead and they hadn’t the strength to lift them.
Two fingers pulled their eyelids shut. Ice trickling through their veins, body cocooned in a suffocating warmth. They struggled to maintain the remnants of their lucidity as the fog travelled into their throat and chest and soul.
Everything went black.
The Vultures found them the next day.
“What happened to this guy?”
“Who cares.” Face obscured by a gas mask, she dug through the corpse’s pockets with practiced expertise. “As long as this sucker has something worth taking.”
The other, shorter, with a raggedy cloak covering his form, rifled through the deceased’s wallet. “January Smith.”
“What?”
“Their name.” He removed the cash from their wallet, placing the empty parcel back in January’s pocket. “It’s January Smith.”
“Whoever they are, they’ve been through hell.” She stood with a grunt, holding a silver key triumphantly. “Look, this thing must be ancient. Probably from the 2000s or something.”
“How much can we get for it?”
“Enough.”
He glanced at the body before they fled, resting its hands on its chest. “Rest in peace,” he whispered before dashing into the night.
“N-Not...y-y-yet.” Their teeth chattered, chilled to the bone but skin warm to the touch. Droplets of blood spilled over their lips, staining the ground red as they coughed. They tried to wipe their mouth, but their arms were lead and they hadn’t the strength to lift them.
Two fingers pulled their eyelids shut. Ice trickling through their veins, body cocooned in a suffocating warmth. They struggled to maintain the remnants of their lucidity as the fog travelled into their throat and chest and soul.
Everything went black.
The Vultures found them the next day.
“What happened to this guy?”
“Who cares.” Face obscured by a gas mask, she dug through the corpse’s pockets with practiced expertise. “As long as this sucker has something worth taking.”
The other, shorter, with a raggedy cloak covering his form, rifled through the deceased’s wallet. “January Smith.”
“What?”
“Their name.” He removed the cash from their wallet, placing the empty parcel back in January’s pocket. “It’s January Smith.”
“Whoever they are, they’ve been through hell.” She stood with a grunt, holding a silver key triumphantly. “Look, this thing must be ancient. Probably from the 2000s or something.”
“How much can we get for it?”
“Enough.”
He glanced at the body before they fled, resting its hands on its chest. “Rest in peace,” he whispered before dashing into the night.