So much concrete. Like a tomb.

Meldacyn leaned against a dumpster in the alley, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. The lighter’s flame briefly illuminated her face. Silver eyes. Fawn ears. Narrow face. Dark skin, the color of mahogany and the texture of silk. 

An elf.

Deep breaths and tobacco calmed her, enough at least for her hands to stop shaking. She watched the cars pass. Killers, every one of them. Monsters of steel and glowing eyes. Blaring horns and revving engines bickered over the streets. A facade of order masked the true lawlessness in their heads. Murderers. Mutilators. Pretenders. Paragons of hypocrisy.

Mel dropped her spent cigarette and straightened her dress. Fingers held her ratty coat shut tight as she started away from the inner city. Focus.

Get the money. Walk away. Find air. Head down. Avoid the cars. Make it home alive. Easy. She knew the way well enough.

Curtains of dark brown hair framed Mel’s face, protecting her from the world. Jeers, whistles, and shouts reflected off the walls they created. There were plenty of others for them. Her grip tightened. She could feel them talking.

Cheap. Desperate. No, just a prude. Too stuck up for sex work.

Wrong, by the way.

She had all the clients she wanted. She knew elves that charged less, too, and was happy to point them out, if you asked. Mel had what she needed, though. Just enough. Enough money for food and cigarettes. Enough clothes to keep clean and warm. Enough of a house to rest in. Enough company to keep insanity at bay.

And five-hundred would be enough for the week. More than enough. Some could be saved for emergencies. Maybe a hat. The air was getting colder every year. And her shed was getting drafty. A thick, new blanket, perhaps? She shivered. Just thinking about it made her skin prickle. The wind hurt as it whipped around her. New coat. Definitely a new coat. Four years was about the limit, apparently. Yes, a coat with a working zipper and a hood. And those little strings to pull it tight around her face. That would fix everything. Or help, at least.

Mel sighed. She might need another appointment, if she wanted a good coat. Less trashy. Warm. Nothing fancy, no, no, but just long and thick enough to keep the wind out. Something that would last another four years.

A buzz interrupted her thoughts. She fumbled for the cheap phone in her pocket and opened it. A mass alert appeared.

Citizens of Fernell City. Return to your homes immediately. A caravan has been sighted northwest of town. If you cannot get home, take refuge in the nearest bunker or hospital. Please remain calm and wait for further updates.

Mel’s stomach tightened as she closed the phone. A caravan? Right next to her house? But the nearest elf-friendly bunker was almost three miles in the opposite direction. She looked around. Curtains were already being drawn in the surrounding run-down homes.

Five minutes to get home, or a half-hour trek to the bunker?

With a gulp, Mel put her hands in her pockets. Her left hand closed around cold metal. Just in case. She wove between houses, staying off the street whenever she could. If the Red Death saw her…

Grinding tires. Her chest caught. Cover your mouth. Don’t breathe. She pressed against a tree to hide as a black van rolled slowly past.

“Hey, C, hit the breaks, man.”

Mel squeezed the metal and heard a small click as a blade extended. Careful. She peeked around the tree.

A muscular bronze man jumped out of the van. He wore the dark fur cloak and plain red mask of the Red Death. The driver, darker and similarly dressed, also opened his door. He stood and leaned over the roof.

“Barn, what are you doing?” he asked.

The first man stalked closer, pulling on a glove. Claws glinted in the moonlight.

“You had your fun,” he said. “I want mine.”

Mel bit her lip and slipped back into the shadows. Had he seen her? Her heart beat so fast, it skipped a few steps. She couldn’t do it. She refused to be another tortured body on the side of the road. She raised the knife to her own throat.

Shattering glass halted her hand.

“Barnabaaaaaay,” an exasperated woman bellowed. “I wanna goooo.”

Mel peeked between the branches again. Barn - Barnaby? - called back to the woman. A blonde sitting in the sliding door. Legs crossed. Fur cape and red mask. Blood covered her jeans and hands. She stepped out. Heels clicked the pavement.

“There’s a girl in here. I smell her,” the man said.

Mel scanned the area. Any way she went, they would see her. She covered her mouth again to stifle a whimper. Silently, she prayed for protection from the caravan.

“You have dolls at home, Barn.”

“Can you two make a bigger racket?” the driver shouted at them.

“Help me out here, babe. I’ll be done faster if you do.”

“If they have nova, I want it,” said the driver.

“Yeah, yeah. Give us a minute,” the woman called back.

Mel bit her thumb. Can’t stay. Not safe. If they could smell her, hiding wasn’t going to-

A man shouted inside the house. A moment of silence, then shrill screams. At that point, self-preservation won, and her legs just started moving. Boots beating dirt. Heart pounding. Tears blurring her vision. Get away. Just get away! Muscle memory pushing her forward into the nearby woods. Legs quitting. Stomach churning. She landed hard on her knees and hands. Too much.

She vomited. Fear and stress forced the purging of what little she ate earlier. Gagging on exhaustion. Crying from tension. She backed away a little, still sobbing, and leaned against a tree. It was too much. And she was all alone. In the dark. In the quiet…

Snap.

Mel’s head jerked towards the sound of breaking branches. Knife. Where was it? Oh, gods, she dropped it. She looked around. She didn’t see her shed, but a metal glint pulled her attention. Baban’s knife. She grabbed it tightly and glanced around again. Okay. She knew where she was. Knew where home was. She wiped her face with her coat collar.

Crack.

Mel jumped at the rustling. She stalked slowly towards it, both hands on Baban’s knife. Quiet. Careful. Was she even breathing? Inhale and exhale. Grip the knife tighter. A new noise behind her. A whimper.

Mel turned. She yelped and dropped the knife again to cover her mouth.

A skeleton?

No, not quite. The hand looked boney enough, but some flesh clung to it, split by a rail spike pinning it to the tree. That hand was attached to an arm, with a face leaning against it. Eyes shut and sunken. Greasy, white locks caked with dirt and blood. A rotted hole in the face revealed yellow and brown teeth inside.

Mel covered her nose with an arm, trying to block out the rancid smell. Maybe not a skeleton, but definitely dead. It’s spine poked through deep, fresh gouges in its back. Dark, runic scars covered its shoulder, as did bruises, cuts, and sores. Flat chest, no shirt, ragged and dirty shorts. A boy, maybe a teenager? He looked tiny. Mel sighed. Another “toy” they were done playing with. She knelt next to it.

“Goddess Ginobu,” she whispered in elven, “I pray you find this lost soul and return him to his family.”

She laid a hand on his thin, beaten leg. Something immediately hit her chest. Hard. She fell back. Mel’s gaze shot to the boy’s black, fearful eyes. He put his boney hand down again. Not dead.

She screamed.