"You wanna wait here?" says Harley, visibly perturbed.

"What if the train leaves?"

"It'll be a minute or two, but I gotta go ahead and make sure the coast is clear first."

"Alright, but I'll be standing right by the door; if anything happens, I'll keep it open for you."

As he crosses over onto the platform, I lean against the door to keep it steady. I glance down at the interstice between the platform and the train. There's a mangled, faceless corpse lying beneath the rail, torn in half by moving trains. My stomach churns at the sight of his entrails winding across the tracks. I look up again and witness Harley investigating a corpse resting against one of the pillars. The rest of the chamber is an bloody mess of unrecognizable parts, a complete massacre.

"The coast is clear. Hurry the hell up!" he shouts, beckoning towards me

As we ascend the stairs towards the outside, the orange glow of the street lights begin to absorb the outline of his face. I become entranced by the image; I'm assaulted with fragments of the angel's white face beneath the glow of the killer moon. Black hole, white wall.

"Why are you always staring into space like that? It's kinda creepy. Feels like yer up to somethin'" he says.

"I...had a dream before I woke up. I can't stop thinking about it."

"You did? What was it about?"

A palpable sense of familiarity invades his expression. He must have had a similar dream, but neglects to speak about it. He's bad at hiding his intentions.

"I was walking drunk around a city. The sky was blood red, and angels came down from the sky, killing thousands of people, maybe millions."

"Angels? Are you sure about that?" he says; suddenly the cigarette drops from his mouth.

"Did you have a similar kind of dream?" I ask.

"I don't have dreams anymore. I stopped having dreams when I was a teen. If I do, I sure's hell don't remember 'em when I wake up."

When we exited out onto the street level we were met by a labyrinth of tall buildings which suffocated the horizon with a black wall. It remained dark, though there lacked the enticing rainbow of a thousand neon signs and digital screens; instead there was a dullness, as if every electronic device had been left on for so long that it decayed mournfully into variations of grey and blue, and it mingled with the radiation of the streetlights, haunting the glass tombstones with pale embers, and behind them hovered the constant drone of electric currents, from the power lines and from the conduits flowing through the catacombs of stone. Like the language that the woman was speaking earlier, the buildings and billboards appeared to be labeled with jumbled words that looked like hiragana, katakana and kanji, but meant absolutely nothing at all.

We walk between the sepulchers while the twilight creeps through the crevices in the mountains; in the corners of our eyes appear ghosts and white wisps, but there are no stalkers in sight. The early morning codgers are replaced by soulless shapes, wandering aimlessly onto the grasses and into parking lots like prey animals on their last legs.

"So...who else is here besides us?" I ask.

He hesitates before answering but, seemingly because of boredom, he gradually submits to his desire for conversation.

"At least a couple o'folks, but I ain't exactly on the best terms with 'em."

"For obvious reasons, I'm sure."

"Disagreements happen. It's no game."

"Is that why you tied me up and took my gun?"

"Easier if we handle things the old-fashioned way. Had guns pulled on me before. Ain't livin' in civil society no more. Somebody's gotta be the hammer, and somebody's gotta be the nail. That's that."

There's another large street beckoning us back into the maze of the metropolis. It's more than likely to be safe, but I can't help but feel the world closing in on me as I look up and see the harsh decay that becomes more and more apparent with each new street, each new avenue. All along, there are cars, street signs, apartments and little buildings covered in dust; broken, mangled, and twisted.

He reaches into his shirt pocket to retrieve a pair of fogged, crooked sunglasses before straightening them and fitting them across the bridge of his nose. Following this is another cigarette and his matchbox; he rolls the thin stogie against the corner of his lip, lighting it and popping it in and out of his mouth like a lollipop. Plumes of smoke rise above and over his head, floating through the thin strands of his hair before polluting my personal space. He adjusts his watch and sleeves before sticking his hands back into in his pockets.

"You seem awfully calm. Didn't you say those things were around here somewhere?" I whispered.

"If we were being followed we woulda known by now."

When we reached the street corner, he veered down into the curve, crossing the intersection at a red light. Instinctively, I stayed behind, but when I realized the streets were empty, I crossed the street hurriedly, trying to catch up to him.

"Hah, it still hasn't completely dawned upon you yet, has it?" he laughs as he watches me approach the curb before turning back around.

As we meander by several intersections and roads, some appearing quite similar to one another and others leading to roadblocks, bridges and dead ends, we find ourselves being entertained by each other's stupid banter. I feel more and more comfortable speaking to this lout the longer we're together. It could just be Stockholm syndrome. He walks with bad posture and his hands are always in his pockets. He wears goofy suspenders and he doesn't care much to part his hair properly. His cologne is mixed in with the smell of cigarettes and whiskey. He's revolting, but not too revolting. In fact there's something a little bit familiar about him that I can't quite put my finger on, like he's some sort of obscure celebrity.

Before long we happen upon the perimeter of a local parking lot; Harley clears the surrounding barrier, insinuating that we were approaching our destination. I follow suit and place one leg over the edge, hopping over onto an island of grass and trees. When I look up, I'm nearly blinded by the halo of the sun shining past the edge of a tower emerging from a vast complex. It reflects the infinitude of the boundless sky, and the glass panes become so blue that they open up the clouds, filling the ground with a gravity that pulls the world's spirit down from the atmosphere.

We continue towards the entrance, but just as I'm about to turn onto the stairs, he walks past it.

"Aren't we supposed to enter here?"

"We're going in through a different way. Front entrance is locked."

"So how do you suppose we get in?"

"'Round this building there's a parking garage with a tiny window we can enter through. I barely fit, but you're pretty dainty, so you should suffice."

"Dainty? I'm above-average height!"

"By what, two centimeters?"

We approach a dented steel door, and he takes a deep breath before kneeling below a series of gaps that aerate the parking deck.

"Not so fast. What about the rope?" I say.

"Oh, right." he replies, fetching a small switchblade from his pocket, "But if you try to run, I'll shoot you down. Got it?"

"That goes without saying." I reply as he runs the knife through the ropes before kneeling back down again.

I shifted my weight upon his hands on purpose to strain him, and smile subtly as he lifts me up through the opening. When I glance back, he seems not to care, however.

"You could probably stand to shed a few pounds, you know." he says as I drop down onto the other side.

"Really? So what's your secret to staying skinny? Chain smoking? I would take it easy if I were you, you're starting to look haggard, like a middle-aged man."

"As long as I've got a great personality, my looks will never matter."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" I say as I try to lift the dented gate from the bottom to no effect.

"You can't actually open it. The motor is broken. I uhhh....panicked'n smashed it a couple of days ago, so it's probably stuck like that. There's a rope I left tucked underneath one of those cars; toss it over the edge, and when you feel me tugging on the rope, I want you to pull as hard as you can."

I look around the parking lot and notice a truck positioned close to the wall. Upon seeing the rope tucked underneath, I pull it out and toss it to him through the window. I take the rope and climb onto the car, nearly slipping before I make it to the top of the storage trailer. I walk about half a meter, and feel his weight begin to tug at me.

"Hey, are you standing as close to the wall as you can? I'm gonna need to go a bit further!" I shout.

"Alright, I'm gonna hug the wall! You better not kill me!"

And as I felt the pull of his body, I jumped down, shifting his entire weight upon me before loosening up.

"Ow! That shit hurt...can you help me down from here? I ain't quite through yet!" 

His other arm clutches the inside as I walk over to help him down. As I pull, he tucks his shoulders between the gap and struggles to force his chest through. When he manages to squeeze his shoulders out of the hole, his lower half body glides through, tilting him over the ledge. He nearly crushes me as I run to keep him from cracking his skull against the concrete.

When his legs slip over the edge, he maneuvers to catch the ground and uses my shoulders as leverage to stand and readjust himself.

"Nice catch; almost glad ya don't have to glue my skull back together."

"I almost wish that I did."

We climb the ramp towards the 2nd floor where we happen upon a set of double doors, with a an electronic device beside it audibly zapping and shooting sparks into the air.

"Looks like someone busted the card reader." 

When he throttles the handle, he shoves the door against the wall, holding it open for me as I amble inside. We enter into a grey hall with a blue carpet; beside us are two rooms, one white and the other red, decorated by extravagant tapestries and paintings. The white room is filled with abstract paintings of shapes and gradients, and there's one really large painting of what looks like a giant rock surrounded by the sea. In the red room there are landscape paintings and still lifes. One of the still lifes is a painting of dead, exotic birds that are being hung to a clothesline by their feet. As we enter into the foyer, I'm struck by the sweet sound of a bow gliding across the strings of a violin.

"Is the radio playing on the loudspeaker?" I asked.

"No...I think that's coming from the chamber..."

"The chamber?"

"Shh. Quiet. Follow me, up the stairs and onto the balcony level. Don't make a sound."

We hook a left and creep up the wide marble staircase, the sound of the violin becoming clearer with each step. The notes seem to flow over us like a river, falling and then striking the edges of the metal sculpture that sits in the middle of the foyer, like fish colliding with the bottom of a pool below a waterfall. The melody is soft, slow and simple, like waves folding over each other on a cloudy day. In the middle are the double doors to the auditorium, and on each side are stairways whose doorframes are covered in delicate gold filigree. Harley beckons me towards the left side and we climb up the red velvet steps until an ornate ceiling with detailed murals, and a stage bathed in warm light come into view. I can feel the subtle sound of the bow creeping through the crevices in the barriers, wrapping around my feet like the edges of my toes hitting a tripwire. Suddenly the music stops. Harley and I both stand completely still.

"Achoo!"

The sound of a woman sneezing echoes through the silence; Harley looks at me with wide eyes, and for a moment, we're both frozen, caught in the spotlight of our own fear. And then, as if nothing happened, the music starts up again, the notes flowing seamlessly from the violinist's bow. We exchange a glance and cautiously proceed towards the end of the balcony, navigating through the labyrinth of corridors and rooms, until we arrive at a small door tucked away in a corner. Slowly and quietly, Harley opens the door; it appears to be a janitor's closet. He picks through the supplies and finds what he's looking for—a rifle blending in with the janitors mops and brooms.

"Got it," he says with a grin, holding the sniper in his arms triumphantly.

"What are you gonna do with that?" I ask, a mix of curiosity and anxiety in my voice.

"Got some business to take care of."

Harley leads me back down the corridor, the sound of the violin growing louder with each step. He ducks and crawls to the edge of the balcony, peeking through a crack in the middle of the barrier; sitting on a stool at the edge of the stage is a woman with blonde hair, dressed in a black turtleneck and pleated skirt. Her face is hidden from view, her body swaying gently with the music. As Harley plants the sniper on the balcony, she turns to face us. Her eyes are a piercing green, and her lips curve into a small smile as she lowers the violin.