“I’m fuckin’ trying!”
“You can dance on a fuckin’ pole, but you can’t climb a fence?”
“The pole doesn’t have barbed wire, asshole!” Roger teetered awkwardly on the barbed wire, but he managed to make it over unscathed. He dropped down beside Mickey. “Now what?”
“We get the fuck out of here!” Mickey grabbed Roger’s arm and ran.
They bolted down the street away from the plant, taking a turn into an alley. Mickey led the way around a narrow corner and took them through a long row of dumpsters.
“Where the fuck are we going?” Roger demanded. “We can’t just keep running!”
“I told you I used to live around here! Trust me!”
“Fuck you!”
“Fuck you! Stop following me then!”
“You fuckin’ wish!”
They sprinted through trash-filled backstreets and dingy cutaways until Mickey stopped at a rusted door. It was the rear exit of the old apartment building he used to live in, and he knew it was never locked.
“Here!” Mickey pushed the door open, jogging through a small hallway and into the apartment’s security office.
It was used for storage when Mickey lived here, and nothing had changed. The small room was crowded with boxes, pieces of a sectional sofa, and a small coffee table. There were two desks hidden beneath more boxes near the far wall, and it smelled of bleach and mildew.
Mickey shut and bolted the door behind them, and he nearly collapsed. His legs were aching and his chest was on fire from running so far for so long. He fought to catch his breath, holding his arms over his head and trying to walk off the cramps in his thighs.
“We have to go back,” Roger wheezed, falling down to his knees as he gasped for air.
“The fuck for?” Mickey stared at Roger in shock. “No way. There’s nothing left back there.”
“Crybaby.”
“She’s dead,” Mickey said flatly, swallowing back a mouthful of bile as the image of her lifeless body flashed before his eyes. His pulse was finally starting to come down, and his breathing was slowing, but now he felt sick.
“We have to go back,” Roger repeated. “Now.”
“Roger. Listen to me. She’s dead. There’s nothing to go back to except a fucking dead body.”
Roger shook his head and shakily got to his feet. He checked his gun. “I’ve got half a magazine left. I can do it. I can make it.” He headed to the door.
Mickey rushed up behind him and grabbed his arm. “Make it where? Are you kidding me? What the fuck are you talking about!”
“She’s still out there!” Roger roared. “Let go of me! She could still be alive!”
“You’re done!” Mickey bit back, grabbing the gun from Roger’s hand. “You’ll die trying to go rescue a fuckin’ corpse!”
“You fucking bastard, don’t you fucking say that! Fuck you!” Roger swung at Mickey, clumsy with rage. “Give me back my gun!”
“You are the last fuckin’ person who needs a gun right now.” Mickey sidestepped the punch, disassembling Roger’s gun into pieces and letting them drop to the floor. Roger tried to punch him again, and he caught his arm. “Roger! Stop!”
“No! What the fuck did you do, you fuckin’ ninja prick?” Roger snarled, jerking away. “Fix my fuckin’ gun and let me go!”
Mickey took hold of Roger’s shoulders and shoved him up against the door. “No.”
“Let me go!” Roger barked furiously, his eyes damp as he struggled to get free. “You fuckin’ ugly, bald, fucked-up, snake-lookin’ motherfucker! Let me go right now!”
Mickey was not bothered by the insults, and he held Roger firmly. His chest felt heavy, but he knew there was nothing else they could do for her. “Crybaby is dead. If you go back out there, you’ll be dead too.”
