CCD1.1: Black Angels and White Nothing

Sherry, Joe, Gerry, and Sharon rolled into the town with a thunder and a clap. And an echo. And a dustcloud.

Turning off her motorcycle and taking off her helmet, Sharon shook her black hair and shrugged her head generally to the left, rolling her brilliant blue eyes squinting at the bright sun a bit even further left, like a white angel might be whispering in her ear and it tickled. A bit.

But there were no white angels here. Only black ones. And it was cold, despite the burning sun. And dead quiet. Dead.

“A 7-11. Let's hit it,” she suggested.

There was no discussion, but all got off their bikes and raced over to the store, kicking up more dustclouds with their heavy boots, red-handled axes in their black hands. An alarm sounded at the very first strike Joe swung (he got his in first, with a “HA!”--but it was hardly fair; he had the longest legs and everyone knew it and stopped taking bets a long time ago), blade sticking into the formaldehyde pressed plywood that covered what once was a window, splintering eight layers of enamelled graffiti what one might call art, the paint chips falling to the ground like matte glitter. All covered their noses, but not their ears. Don't know what's in that paint.

“Like they're coming,” Sherry snorted. “They ain't paid enough to risk it.”

Joe wiggled the axe until it was free, then swung again, hitting the “e” in “despondent depot” that should have been an “i”. Sherry wondered whether or not that was on purpose; his swing hardly ever hit the mark, but then again he was also easily teed off by bad spelling, so may have been inspired. The others joined in.

The wood loosened a bit, and Sharon kicked it in. “Man! Find that fucking alarm and smash it. It's driving me crazy.” She picked a splinter out of her wrinkled and scratched black hand with her teeth, and spat it to the ground. “Let's clean up.”

“I hope they have Ho-Hos,” whined Gerry.

“You always want Ho-Hos.”

“They're always still good.”

“Maybe you've eaten enough preservatives to be immune.” Sherry tried not to laugh, but did, turning on her flashlight. Or attempting to; it came on a moment, then winced out.

“Maybe.” Gerry headed to the snack isle, his flashlight shining bright. He got one of those solar ones in the last town, so his always worked. Sherry was jealous cuz he got the last one and was quite sick of looking for batteries that still worked, but said nothing. She headed to the cashier counter to find more batteries. Maybe they'd be good. Sometimes you'd get lucky. She felt lucky.

The store fell silent as someone smashed the alarm, but she didn't see who, but did hear Sharon's voice. “THANK YOU!!!” And assumed it was Joe. Gerry never did anything, really. Didn't want to risk it.
___

“You gonna get that?”

Officer Joel—last name not first—at least that's what he said every time he introduced himself—looked over at the computer that was now speaking.

“A-18 at 7-11, Main Street. A-18...”

“Nope.” He leaned back into his chair again, but not too far, and reopened the paper, carefully.

“Oh.”

Officer Keaton—first name not last—looked out the peephole of the door with his one good eye—if you could call it good, as it was encircled in black, blood vessels broken, and you'd have known it had changed to brown if the blue eye'd still existed—but it did still work--as if he could see the 7-11 from there.

It was six blocks away.
___

Marilyn Gausman rang a golden bell shaped like an apple as she sat in bed. She'd forgotten where she'd got it.

"Yessem?" A black man with a white coat stooped at the door. She also couldn't remember the last time she'd seen him stand straight. But it hardly mattered. She could still sit straight; that's all that mattered. She could always get another one.

"Could you change the channel please?"

Warren looked at the screen. It was the news. Again. The news broke into just about every show these days, and it was truly annoying. This time it was children in some place far away with bruises all over them. But they weren't crying. They were just standing there naked.

"It's depressing."

"Yessem."

The television soon fell silent. And Warren shuffled back out the door, as Marilyn obviously had no further use of him at the moment. She'd gone back to putting on her Response Cream™ (she secretly preferred the Solar-Enabled CoQ10™, but couldn't afford it these days as her healthcare wouldn't cover it. Actually, she could afford it, but that'd be real money, and this stuff she just had to sign for. Was her dead husband responsible for that? She'd forgotten that, too. He died of complications years ago when a wound wouldn't heal), which she did religiously eight times a day, just like the visiting doctor had told her to do.

She sighed.