Fura kept his eyes glued to the horizon as he slowly edged out of the quarantine gates and entered the area known as West Block. The land was a strip of arid nothingness closest to No. 6, allowing the wall patrol a clear sight on anyone or anything approaching the Quarantine Zone for a few miles out, but after a twenty-minute drive, the road forked and civilization loomed. To the right, the Correctional Facility. To the left, the slums of West Block. Fura made the left, as he always did, and crept down the path slowly, using only his low beams.
Fura knew the creatures that roamed this place were attracted by sound not sight, so he could use the high beams and drive faster if he wanted, but a career in government had taught him to err on the side of caution. Fura considered the slow crawl toward the town as a part of the monthly ritual.
Through the blackened windshield, Fura's dark, dull eyes drank in the sight of boarded-up hovels and the huddled bodies against them. A child, dirt-smeared and skeleton thin, paused in its meager amusement of scratching at the dirt with a stick to watch the car roll over the dusty road. They squinted in the headlights, the harsh light bringing every sharp angle of their body into startling attention for a moment before Fura turned down another road and entered the main slum.
He performed a compulsory sweep of the area before him as he bumped along the uneven path, but he wasn't too worried about the car being set upon by a horde of the stricken. He had traveled back and forth between Quarantine Zone No. 6 and West Block many times over the last year, and never once had he seen an infected person, let alone been attacked by one. The world outside the wall might be a sordid, disease-ridden cesspool, but the wall patrol did their job well. If the place looked like it was about to be overrun, the Security Bureau put together a Clean-up, and all was set to rights again.
Still, a low caliber handgun lay on the passenger seat, just in case today decided to play out differently. Technically, the Salvation Edict forbade citizens from owning a firearm of any kind, but special allowances were given to high officials like himself who had reason to travel outside of the quarantine zone for business.
Nearer the outskirts of the town, the houses were far apart and larger, but once one entered West Block proper, the buildings grew one on top of the other in faded, crooked rows, like mossy teeth in a stripped back skull. Dark unidentifiable stains lined the edges of the slush-streaked street like varicose veins. Fura's gaze traced the outlines of the crumpled heaps in the doorways, and it lingered over the figures of the scantily clad whores who shivered in the alleys. Their sunken eyes watched his cruiser pass with a combination of envy and disgust.
The whole town was a rotting corpse, writhing with vermin and maggots. The degeneracy of it made Fura's skin crawl, even as his trousers grew tight across his hips. No. 6 was a place of rigid rules and vanilla living, and West Block was its heady shadow. This was a place for committing sins that one could only stomach under the cloak of night, under the assurance of anonymity and the confidence that once he was fully sated, he could drive back through the gates of No. 6 and slip into bed beside his wife, safe and sound and fresh to face a new day.
Of course, Fura never would have dared to venture outside the wall if not for his job on the Central Administration Board. The Board controlled and processed all the information for the city: education reports, citizen biometrics and lifestyle data, broadcast permissions, travel records. Fura occupied the leadership position on his team, which made him one of the most influential members of No. 6. He was top three, at least, under the Mayor and the Head of the Security Bureau.
He personally saw to it that the security in Quarantine Zone No. 6 was tight. The zone was only paradise as long as the government ensured that no infected or otherwise dangerous entities entered the sanctity of its walls. Persons were not permitted to leave the city without submitting a travel form stating to where they were traveling and for what reason, and these were typically only approved if the reason for travel was urgent. After the traveler's return, they must submit to a full medical check up and possible quarantine if the results showed anything suspect.
Fura handled all the travel records for the entire city. It took less than a minute for him to alter his personal record and erase all evidence that he had ventured outside the zone for a late night tryst. He had a doctor on payroll who agreed to give him the return check ups privately. He wasn't stupid; he was following protocol, just off the record.
Sometimes he wondered whether it was worth all the risk, though. He often sat behind his desk late into the hours of night, imagining all the ways these trips could go wrong. One of the guards at the gate he paid could betray him to the Bureau; he could be attacked by the locals in a fit of envious rage; his wife could find the lipstick on his lapel one night, and she could take their young son with her in the divorce; one of the women he indulged in could have the infection—or an infection, which was just as bad.
But no. The women he had procured for him were always clean. His contact in West Block made sure of that. If he didn't, the man wouldn't have a business, and Fura didn't think a man like that could go back to living like a scavenger. Once you had a taste for the finer things in life, you would do whatever it took to keep them within your grasp. He had become addicted to the game, same as Fura.
He pulled up to the abandoned warehouse that served as their meeting spot and cut the ignition, his hands fidgeting in his lap. Fura could make out very little in the dim light, and the window was fogging from the temperature difference between the warm car and the frigid night. He swiped a swath of condensation away with the sleeve of his cashmere coat and peered out, searching the shadows for his contact. In the distance, he could make out the pitiful structure that the inhabitants had erected as a barrier between them and the Deadlands. Their ramshackle "wall" looked as though a strong wind could blow it over. Fura couldn't believe the place hadn't been overrun by now.
"Where are you?" Fura muttered. He checked his watch. The man was already four minutes late. He was never late.
Fura pulled his coat closer about his shoulders and continued searching the dark for familiar silhouettes. If he's not here by ten after, I'll leave.
The minutes rolled by and the night around him remained still. Fura bit his lip, peeling small slivers of skin from it with his teeth. It was a nervous habit he'd had since his youth. His wife thought it was disgusting and bought all these different terrible tasting chapsticks to train him out of the practice, but it never worked. Fura didn't want it to work; he liked the taste of blood on his lips. It excited him. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help it.
No. 6 was such a pristine place. Everything was so structured, there was a right way and wrong way of doing everything. Information gathering, broadcasts, social interactions, sex. His wife was a tame woman, the kind of woman No. 6 bred: pretty, socially adept, straightlaced. Boring. She didn't understand what he wanted and he couldn't tell her, because he knew what she would say. Disgusting.
West Block was the only place he could indulge in his deepest desires, and he never had to worry about suffering the consequences. He could be as rough or as deviant as he wanted, and the women he paid for didn't bat an eye. His contact had selected them that way, he supposed. He had a good eye for beautiful women and adaptable temperaments. Though, recently his selections had been less than impressive. Serviceable, but nothing to gawk at.
Maybe Fura was becoming jaded. He worried about what he would do if these trips stopped being exciting. Right now they were the only thing that made his blood sing anymore.
It was ten past already. Fura squirmed in his seat. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Five more minutes, he decided. If his contact still hadn't shown up by then, he swore he would drive back the way he came.
A figure emerged from the shadows. Fura thought he recognized the shape, but he checked that the locks on the doors were engaged, just in case.
His contact tapped the driver side window and smiled, his breath fogging up the glass. Fura sneered and lowered the window.
"You're late," he growled.
"Ah, yes. I'm very sorry about that, Fura-sama. I was delayed," the man said, still smiling slightly. "A bit of trouble, but nothing for you to worry about."
His mustache had been trimmed recently, but Fura could see it was a little shorter on one side than the other. A tendril of distaste curled in his belly, but it was superseded by paranoia.
"What kind of trouble?" he asked. His eyes swept over the silent darkness around them.
"It's nothing, really," the man repeated. "It's… Well, the delay actually had to do with our plans tonight. I've set up a rare bit of entertainment for you. I think you're going to be very pleased." His smile grew a few degrees and a low, lewd chuckle rumbled in his throat.
Fura's heart sped at the insinuation, and he had to swallow down an answering chuckle before it pushed past his lips. He didn't want to make this man think they were on the same level.
He licked his raw, chapped lips. "Is she a real beauty? The last one you gave me was only so-so."
"This one's different from the other girls I've introduced to you. She's in a league of her own. I'll give you the details on the way over."
Fura nodded, his interest piqued. He unlocked the car door and stepped out to climb into the passenger seat, sliding the gun into his inner coat pocket, while the man slipped into the driver's. Fura didn't particularly like other people driving his car, but the man knew the town, and it was easier to let him chauffeur them to the women. It certainly increased the anticipation of the encounters.
The man pulled away from the warehouse and took the car down a rocky path. Fura enjoyed the bumps and jolts of the tires crunching over the ground for a minute—it was so different from the smooth, micromanaged streets of No. 6—before returning to the matter at hand.
"Tell me about her."
"Oh, well," the man started, his voice coloring warmly, "she's just as you like them, Fura-sama. Thin, long dark hair, and young." He spared a second to look away from the road and raise his eyebrows meaningfully at Fura.
"How young?"
"I can't be sure, exactly. You know how things are out here. But very young. Young enough that this…. Well, I'll be straight with you. She's never done this before. In fact, she doesn't have any experience with men at all."
Fura laced his fingers together over his groin. "That is different," he breathed.
The man gave a short laugh. "I thought you might like that. She's also got the coloring of the Southernlands in her. Tanned. I remember you like them a little darker?"
Fura nodded. His pulse fluttered against his neck like a trapped insect. He was anxious to meet this new girl. His excitement dipped a little, though, when he noticed the car was slowing, pulling up to a monolith of a building.
"Where are we? This isn't where we usually go." He squinted up at the cool stone illuminated by the headlights.
The man crept to a stop and put the car in park. "That's the other reason this girl is different. She refused to agree unless we met her at her place." He gestured to the building. "She's young and nervous, so I let her have her way. She lives in that hotel with her family."
"Hotel?" Fura tilted his head curiously and studied the massive structure. It must have been beautiful in its heyday. "Wait," he said, turning back to the man. "Her family?"
The man cut the ignition and held up a hand. "Don't worry, they're out. It'll just be you and the girl tonight. Oh, and the dogs."
"Dogs?"
"Yeah, she has a whole pack of them. Bit of a hoarder, if you ask me, but I'm not here to judge. Anyway, it's fine; they're all well behaved. They won't bother you. You ready?" The man flashed a smile and stepped out of the car.
The cold night air nipped at Fura's exposed ankles as they scaled the crumbling steps into the building. The lobby of the defunct hotel was cavernous and pitch black. The man pulled out a candle and lit it so they could traverse over the debris-strewn floor without twisting an ankle, but Fura still felt the shadows pressing in on him like hungry ghosts.
He wrinkled his nose. "There's a smell in here…."
"That would be the dogs," the man confirmed. "They're all around this room. Once your eyes adjust, you'll be able to see them. But don't worry, they won't bark or bite you. They're well trained."
Fura could make out the yellow flashes of the dogs' eyes as they headed up a staircase and down a hall, but the animals didn't move, and most didn't even raise their heads as they passed by. The man stopped in front of a door.
"Here we are," he said, his smile ghoulish with the candle's underlighting. "She's just inside." He opened the door and ushered Fura in.
The room was sparse. The windows were boarded up tight so that nothing could breach the hotel, but that also meant that no light could break through either. The only illumination came from the man's candle and another candle burning on the table in the middle of the room. The low light revealed a shoddy partition in the corner, and past that was a pitiful cot, on top of which sat a small girl. She had a blanket wrapped tightly around her, obscuring her head, but Fura could see her tanned legs poking out. They were thin, but had the potential to be shapely if she had the opportunity for the right diet.
"Hello," Fura said, sitting himself beside the girl. "You're a pretty little thing."
The girl turned her head into her opposite shoulder as Fura tried to get a better look at her face. Her body sang with tension, her chapped knuckles curled into tight fists on her lap. Fura smiled at her reluctance, imagining how he would draw her out and into his arms by the end of the night.
"Don't worry," he murmured. "I'll be gentle."
He traced his fingers over the side of her exposed neck, then dropped his hand to her knee as he leaned in to brush his lips over her thrumming pulse. She smelled like the hotel lobby, like the thick musk of wild dogs. It wasn't a pleasant scent, but desire pooled between his legs all the same. He pressed his nose into the hair behind her ear, breathing in the smell and marveling at its novelty.
"Well," the man said from across the room. "I'll leave you to it, then. Call me when you're done."
Fura's brow furrowed. His hand stopped its slow slide up the girl's thigh and he pulled back and frowned as the man headed for the door. "Wait. What about your payment?"
The man froze. "Oh. Right, the payment," he mumbled as he turned back to face Fura. "I trust you to give it to me when you're done. You looked eager to get started, is all."
Fura narrowed his eyes. Something wasn't right. The man always made him pay upfront. Money was the whole reason he was in this dirty business in the first place. There was no way he had just forgotten about it. More red flags started popping up in Fura's head.
The man had been late, they were in a place they'd never been before…. The hairs on the back of Fura's neck prickled.
Then the girl slapped his hand off her thigh and jumped up, shouting expletives.
"What the fuck is your problem?" she shrieked. "You were supposed to come out already! You asshole!"
Fura flinched, but soon realized that she wasn't shouting at him—she was addressing the far corner of the room—and he also realized that 'girl' might not be the right term. The child before him had long hair, but their face was young and androgenous, so he wasn't sure anymore whether they were what he had been led to think.
"What's going on?" Fura demanded. He stood up and traded glances between the man and the furious child.
"Uh, well…" The man's eyes darted sideways. "Okay, so, maybe I misled you a little. I don't know their age or their gender. You know, West Block." He shrugged sheepishly as though that covered everything. "But I figured you wouldn't mind either way. I thought maybe you liked all kids, you know?"
The child pulled the blanket tight around their shoulders and burned a hole into the far wall, muttering the f-word over and over with intermittent growls of "asshole" and "prick."
Something was seriously wrong. Fura reached into his inner coat pocket and headed for the door. "I'm leaving."
The man stepped into his path with his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. "Aw, no. Don't—"
Fura pulled out the pistol and pointed it at the man's face. "Get out of my way! I swear to god I'll shoot you!"
He meant it. He wouldn't hesitate and he wouldn't feel bad. These people weren't like him. They were hardly even human. The inhabitants of West Block had joined the ranks of the dead when the wall went up between them and the chosen. They were parasites living on borrowed time. Killing one would be doing the world a service.
"Now there," purred a voice from behind him. Fura didn't have time to look before a hand clapped over his mouth and his pistol arm wrenched down and behind him. "That's no way to treat your host now, is it? Let's take it easy."
Fura didn't know whether it was a man or a woman speaking, but it was quite possibly the loveliest, most soothing voice he had ever heard. He relaxed in the person's hold. The moment he did, the person gripped his jaw hard, swept his legs out from beneath him, and slammed his head down against the wooden floorboards. Fura's consciousness snuffed out like a candle.