The famous oil refineries of Greater Houston hummed a sad ballad as I traveled north on highway-146. The trip to La Porte was an easy twenty-five minutes, close enough to see gulls flying overhead from Galveston Bay, though the shores themselves were blocked from view by giant metal spheres, towering cylinders, and skeletal webs of metal. I passed a familiar air pollution warning sign, telling me to turn to on local radio for more information. What good is a sign like that for the people who grow up in toxic air though?

La Porte was a large suburb sandwiched between Galveston Bay and Houston proper, a port city from which oil tankers unloaded crude oil shipped from the middle east for refinement. Unlike the tourist-driven economies of south-east Houston and Galveston, La Porte had shriveled and died upon the deep sleep epidemic. The already unstable oil-producing countries of the middle east fell further into anarchy, and with more pressing matters stateside, the U.S. military abandoned its Asian puppet states and war partners. With the fall of Saudi Arabia, Afganistan, Iraq, and other oil-producing countries, the black gold vanished, as did the refinery jobs of La Porte, leaving the workers with little opportunity for work. Many celebrated America's forced adoption and centralization of alternative power, though little joy could be found in the already polluted streets or the once prominent middle-class households of La Porte. At least their homes won't be swallowed by the bay in fifty years, even if they can't afford to stay in them.

My task wouldn't be an easy one, having only a name, a city, and a gun. Before leaving Kemah I had scoured the Whitepages for any information, though in La Porte alone there were dozens of Alexander Richards, and that wasn't factoring the possibility of my target using an alias or not being a native La Porte resident.

I pulled my Accord to the side of the road and thumbed through a text document I had loaded information into. On it was the address of every Alexander, Alex, and Al Richards this side of Louisiana, though those weren't my only leads. I stumbled upon an interesting article about a gang of homeless people breaking into closed refineries. A particularly interesting part of it reported on an unnamed group coming into conflict with the local police.

The La Porte police station was in obvious disrepair. The line of cruisers outside was littered with cracked or broken windows and flat tires, and the building itself was dirty. The stucco walls had a thin coat of grey, a gift of the nearby refineries no doubt. Inside were empty desks, haphazardly covered with long undone paperwork. The receptionist stood up an motioned me toward the desk. "Hey, what can I do for you?" the officer said.

"Hello, I'm a student journalist, just wanted to ask a few questions about a recent event if that's alright," I replied. I figured that would sound a bit better than being a bartender in search of a murder target for a man from my dreams.

"Well, I can help with that a bit, but keep in mind, if the case you're talking about is ongoing, I might not be able to comment on much."

"That's fine. It's about a recent confrontation your office had with a gang in an abandoned refinery."

"Ah, yes. The group had moved into the old Jackson Inc. refinery on the east side of town. The refinery itself had closed when the corporation filed for bankruptcy and the group decided to use the land for their own means," the officer said.

"What exactly were they doing in there?" I asked.

"Unfortunately, I cannot comment on that," he replied.

"Alright, so who were these people? Are they a well-known gang? Who exactly is their leader?" I asked.

"The person who reported them to us said they were homeless people, so we initially intended to just take them to a homeless shelter; however when our officers arrived they were assaulted by gunfire and, well, actually I can't comment on anything else," the officer trailed off.

What else could the police have been assaulted by? I thought back to my encounter with the bedroom intruder. The man created a forcefield that destroyed my shoe. I wasn't sure that actually happened, seeing as I was high out of my mind, but something burned my shoe into cinders. These people were more than just homeless vagrants.

"What happened to the gang? Were they driven out of the refinery? Were you able to arrest any of the criminals?" I asked. The officer leaned forward and motioned for me to do the same.

"Let's keep this off the record, but there's a lot of shit regarding this case you don't want to be involved in. While we were able to drive the group out of the refinery, we have received reports of other abandoned refineries being occupied by these people, and unfortunately, we have neither the manpower nor the funding to sweep them all out. We lost fourteen officers in the confrontation and seeing as we previously have lost about half of our total staff to the epidemic in the past year, we can't really deal with these people. I know the media has been calling them squatters, but they're more than that. If you know what's good for you, you'll write your paper and move on to another assignment."

I was speechless. What exactly was I dealing with? The officer could see the shock on my face.

"Where do you go to school? San Jac? U of H? Ah, it doesn't matter. Just get this assignment over with, and move on. And let's hope this epidemic passes us on so you can put that degree to good use, eh? If you go poking around in these matters, you're going to find yourself in a place no college student wants to be in. What's the point in making it through the epidemic if you get killed by a bunch of savages?" the officer said.

"Yeah, I guess you're right. I'm surprised a gang was able to do so much damage." I said.

"Yeah, the office has seen better days. With so many people down for the count, its a wonder the city hasn't collapsed yet," he said.

"Well thanks, sir. I'm sure this will get me through this assignment," I said.

"Don't mention it. Also, don't go saying in your paper we're understaffed, that's bad news right there."

"Gotcha," I said as I walked toward the exit. I didn't know what I'd gotten myself into, but I knew if I were going to kill this man, I'd need to go to the battlefield. My next stop was the East Side Jackson refinery.