The eroded framework of the next city appeared by midafternoon the next day. By then they'd picked up on the second set of footsteps hitting the pavement behind them and had pushed themself farther than they should have to try to shake it. No luck. And their breath was starting to taste like fresh blood.

They stopped to drink from their canteen and peel their sweat-soaked coat off, all while listening to their chaser get closer, falter, and finally stop. That was all the proof they needed to confirm their suspicions that it was Radio. Although the miles of following in complete silence had been pretty damning already. One of the farmhouse factioneers would have taken the opportunity to crack True over the head.

Whatever. They didn't have time to stop and shoo Radio off. Shrugging their pack into place, they set off at a brisk walk, headed west. The Red Faction could already be at the After Market, slinking around the hidden stalls, planting bombs in rusted eavestroughs. That thought alone squeezed a little extra speed out of their tired body.

What their plan was once they got there, they had no clue. Convincing a bunch of grouchy corpse robbers and merchants to uproot would be like walking barefoot on shattered glass.

Why kill the After Market? There had always been rumours that the Red Faction picked off scavengers. Shaken loners cropped up in the market streets on occasion, claiming they had been hauled off to Red Faction headquarters and escaped as a lone survivor of unspeakable horrors.

But it was one thing to kill a few scavengers and entirely another to destroy the After Market. It was the After Market that had pushed this stretch of world across the line from post-apocalypse and kept it there. Out of the starvation years and into survival. And even that had happened only recently. Nobody was ready for it to burn up yet. And nobody would believe the Red Faction was stupid enough to try.

They reached the outskirts of the city as the sun hit the spiky line of the horizon. Knee-high wild grass gave way to young trees and wildflowers that upheaved the sidewalks. Bushes spread unchecked up the sides of buildings that had once held offices and living spaces. A scavenger could spend months clearing some of those apartment complexes and hotels. Scorch marks and ash pits marked the street before the front doors of certain buildings to indicate to civilians and scavengers alike that those ones were a corpse-free place to rest.

In recent months, some of the less nomadically-inclined civilians had begun to make homes in the upper floors.

A rabbit skittered across their path, dodging from undergrowth to undergrowth. That would make good stew one day. The After Market would be yawning awake now, a tiny constellation of oily light reflected at the fresh night sky. True hurried through the abandoned streets. They had to hope the Market hadn't moved since the last time they were here. Then again, maybe that would be a good sign. Maybe somebody else had sniffed the Faction out.

No such luck. They ducked into the underground parking garage and saw the lights.

The Market popped its bones; merchants laying out wares on the threadbare cloths draped over makeshift tables; a cook near the entrance stoked a fire under a giant cauldron of perpetual stew that had been going approximately since the beginning of the apocalypse. The cook bid farewell to his latest patron with a cheery smile. A greasy rat tail fell between his bony shoulder blades and kept his greying hair out of his fine-lined face. His eyes were of the wide, slightly downturned variety that gave his expression a sort of lost-lamb-esque quality that some people might call inviting, but True would call eerie.

"Jonesy." True lifted their hand in greeting.

The cook nodded back, smile souring at the edges. "Little early, True, gotta give this new meat some time to marinate."

"Not here for food. I need you to keep people out of the Market." Even as they spoke, scavengers were trickling into the potential death trap. Jonesy's gaze lingered on the tender spot above True's eye. They weren't his favourite scavenger, not that they were anybody's favourite scavenger, but Jonesy had no use for those who didn't fall sway to his friendly chatter. And True had no use for his chatter, until now. People liked Jonesy, they would listen to him. Or at least he had favours he could cash in with pretty much everyone who passed. True would just have to buckle down and owe him for the rest of their miserable life.

"Hit your head a tad hard, huh?" he said.

"No, I'm serious."

"I think your lisp's worse today, maybe you should have a seat. I'll get you a bowl." He was already turning his back. True slammed their fists on the lip of the cauldron. Stew sloshed over the dirty ground.

"Galya's dead!" Their shout ricocheted off the cement rafters and bounced around between Jonesy's ears. They could practically hear it pinging off his synapses. At last, the cook did move. There was that prying glint in his eyes again that made True recoil, regret tying their tongue. They had needed him to care to listen, but saying her name felt like giving him too much.

He hooked a rickety three-legged stool closer to True, expression all wrinkled forehead and faint frown and open arms.

"Who is Galya?" he asked in a tone that was too soft and made their bullshit sensor tingle.

Whatever, they'd needed him to listen and now he was listening. They bit their tongue to loosen the tie.

"A merchant from the Market I watched get blown up. She's dead. Everybody died. And everyone here will die, too, if you don't quit dicking around and do what I told you."

Now Jonesy's arm was around their shoulders, making their skin crawl. They shrugged, earlobes all but scraping their shoulders to force him away, and he slid off, carrying on like he didn't notice they were half a step from jamming his own foot into his mouth.

"Sorry your friend died, I know how it is. But we're survivors, eh? You and I might not get along much but you keep on coming back and I'll always be around. You don't gotta worry about any explosions here."

Ugh, fine! He wasn't going to be any help. True scoffed and turned on their heels. If Jonesy wouldn't do anything, they'd find someone who would. Every second wasted was another person unwittingly wandering into a deathtrap.

A tall scavenger paused at Jonesy's beaten counter and slide something across to him.

"For the stew," a deep voice said. The trade disappeared into Jonesy's apron pocket. True was more interested in how clean the arm attached to the scavenger was.

The not-scavenger hesitated. A slight catch, mid-reach, the tilt of their head a few degrees and the flicker of lazy, venomous eyes sliding sideways to glimpse True in the periphery. The soot and blood from the first After Market had been scrubbed away, but their unsettlingly delicate features had been acid-etched into True's brain.

True prickled, on them in an instant, just in time for the factioneer to shove an empty backpack at True. The distraction bought the factioneer a second to bolt.

True batted away the pack and pelted after them.

A deep boom rattled the concrete, sending both runner and chaser sprawling. True landed on hands and knees and braced for the second explosion. The bigger one that would force hungry flames through the tight underground parking garage. Farther up the ramp, the factioneer jumped to their feet, leaving behind a gleeful cackle.

"Better run faster, scavenger!"

Their taunt slithered down to True's ears. The wails of the injured and confused rang through the air, dust floated up towards the entrance. A real scavenger, one True vaguely recognized, crept down the ramp not far from the space the factioneer had occupied moments earlier. Dust turned her narrow eyes watery, ringing them in red. She had one hand pressed to her ear, wincing, a pink wire tangled in her fingers. Her other hand gripped a dented metal bat like it was her lifeline.

"What ha—" she jolted like a code in her brain had misfired. Ragdolling down the ramp, the pink cable and the scuffed disc attached to it clacked to a stop just beyond her reach. It crunched into sharp plastic bits under a factioneer's hiking boot.

A surgical mask hid much of the factioneer's features, but the white streak over her brow and twined up into her hair ratted Otsana out. Her eyes rolled as she kicked the remnants of the cochlear implant, wiping her blade on her thigh. The tall factioneer broke the dust screen behind her, now also sporting a mask. They caught a lock of Otsana's hair and twirled it in a motion that True could have called grossly affectionate, if not for the blood slugging downhill towards them. Affectionate was a softer word than Otsana deserved.

"Convenient." Was all she got out before True launched themself at her. Backpedalling, she ducked out of the way of their shovel by a hair.

"Hrōkr," a guttural call left her throat. Her spectral factioneer friend materialized out of the dust to hook their improbably long arms around True's neck, noose tight. They draped themself over True's shoulder.

"Yes, my darling?" They purred in a voice so deep it was unsettling. "Do you know this little scavenger?"

"They gutted Heath."

"I did not." True said, invoking a hard squeeze from the anaconda around their neck. Their heartbeat became a thud-thud in the swelling veins under their skin. Damn their tongue.

"No more from you," the factioneer said, squeezing tighter. Instinct took over for a stupid panic-stricken instant. The shovel hit the ramp as they clawed at the too-tight beast arm.

"You are such a pain in my ass." Otsana drew a boxcutter from the confines of her sleeve. Hrōkr's grip loosened marginally, permitting True a gasp of dusty air. In spite of Hrōkr's lankiness it felt like they could flex their bicep and pop True's head off.

True flailed and sank their teeth into Hrōkr's bare arm. Their sharp intake of breadth was music to True's ears. That brief, instinctual flinch gave them a smidge of space to drop to the pavement and grab their shovel.

Crack—on Hrōkr's leg. The giant went down on one knee.

Otsana barrelled True over between one breath and the next. Face full of concrete, teeth full of grit. She stuck her blade to the pulse in their neck and pressed. Then, vanished.

They scrambled to their feet, wheeling about to face the scene unfolding before them. Otsana on the ground. Feral clump of black rags thumping her head onto the concrete with alarming viciousness. Hrōkr stretching a long arm to catch the rags.

True hefted their shovel and swung the edge into Hrōkr's elbow. Bone cracked, Hrōkr dropped Radio. Its feet hit the concrete and it rocked back, driving its elbow into Hrōkr's gut. They absorbed the blow but stumbled, only to lose their footing on the blood-slicked ramp. True swiped at their head. Too slow.

Hrōkr flung concrete dust straight into True's face. They staggered back, choking on the fragments, eyes stinging. They blinked tears from their eyes in time to see Hrōkr hoist Otsana's limp body over their shoulder. Against their better judgement, True let them retreat.

True wiped the blood from their neck, regarding Radio while they caught their breath.

"You're kinda scary, ya know?"

A new wail started up nearby, silhouettes gathered at the mouth of the ramp. Either shadow dwellers or more factioneers. They would have to find a different way out. True allowed themself an extra beat to double-check that all the straps on their pack were secure, then dove into the chaos.

Sweat stung in the open wounds they'd collect. Half the air they pulled into their heaving lungs was concrete dust. They swung their shovel again, again, again, again. More often than not they struck at ghosts. The factioneers and dwellers crept through the dark and the dust with the efficiency of sharks prowling familiar waters. True hopped fallen scavengers in pursuit of mirages, the exits ever-moving out of reach.

Swing. Swing. Swing-thump. Swing.

Their arms grew leaden. They were in good shape, but they weren't Heracles. They tripped over the body of a merchant whose face had been slashed so that True only recognized her from her fin-shaped hand. An agonized shriek echoed off the damage concrete supports. Ahead, the ferrety shape of Jonesy straddled a body, wielding a butcher knife the length of his forearm. His soppy eyes darted from True to a third person who emerged from the swirling dust between them. A bold red cross shone alarm-light bright on the stranger's back. True rammed their shovel handle into the base of the factioneer's skull. The factioneer's head whipped and True hauled her back to acquaint her eye socket with their fist. Their knuckles popped, the factioneer staggered, and they kicked her into the dust with a heel to the soft flesh below her sternum.

"Help us get out of here," Jonesy cried from his place on the floor, a young merchant cradled close to his chest. Thick grey dust turned the merchant two-d and stickeresque, natural skin tone and depth stamped flat except for a fat ribbon of blood running from a swollen round welt on her crown. That wound looked nasty. It looked like the kind of wound that would give her trouble walking.

"Fuck off," True exhaled, unconvincingly since they had to lean over and rest their hands on their knees. They needed a minute. It was broiling hot down in that car garage and their throat felt like someone had shot a sandblaster into their open mouth.

"I can't carry her on my own," Jonesy's plaintive whine was punctuated by the merchant woman's groan. Consequences of Jonesy trying to heave her up. Her ankle had been lost under a chunk of rubble and her leg stretched out uselessly from her otherwise unbloodied body. She would have a better shot left there were the rubble hid her from the incoming shadow dwellers. "True—!"

"Fine! Fine, be quiet," True hissed, cutting across to Jonesy and the merchant. He had his arms around her, coddling her head. If nothing else, Jonesy had lived as a satellite colony of this After Market for as long as True had been visiting, and he knew his way around. True was pretty sure they'd been going in circles on their own. Plus, in spite of the misguided effort, True chewed on the nothing that maybe Jonesy meant some of that plastered-on honey-thick caring.

They wedged between his arms to clamp her mouth shut and kicked the rubble off. Spit and hot breath slapped their palm, chased by a couple warm tears. They hooked the merchant under her armpits.

"To the exit," they instructed.

They wound through the dungeon, skirting silhouettes, hopping lumps. The merchant woman sagged off their left side. They were right about the welt, she wobbled uncontrollably, stopping twice to empty her stomach while just ahead Jonesy took his sweet time leading them to safety. Consciousness kited around her. There, but useless as far as running went.

At last, they came to a short, narrow hall that ended in a metal door. Giant curls of paint shed from its surface and lay in the dirt piled before it. A flit of black in the haze caught True's eye as they approached the edge of the hall.

"Radio!" they called just once before ducking into the hall. If it heard, it heard.

They emerged on the other side of the door to clearer air and a night sky. Escape led them deeper into the city, where all that remained of the chaos was a shrill ringing in their ears. Well, that, and the sickness in their gut. They had made it just in time to witness the downfall of another After Market.

Darkness shrouded the city, air chummed with the bitter aftertaste of iron and pyrotechnics. Shadows shifted and grimy windows betrayed glimpses of motion. Reflected, or revealed? Which side were the dwellers standing on? Chilly fingers traced True's sweat-soaked back.

"Where's your stay?" they asked.

"We just left it."

Great.

They needed to get low, fast. Get off the street. Shut up, preferably in a windowless room with a deadbolt. Unfortunately, they were glued to a shivering, sweat-sticky merchant whose foot looked more mottled and bulgy in every patch of moonlight they crossed. They made poor time hobbling through the dark streets. Desperation rolled off them, a siren's call enticing shadow dwellers to veer off from the death beacon that was the late After Market. True could feel hungry stares tracking them as they swept every crevice and doorframe for a place to shove themself and their limpets.

A shape darted from the street corner, all amorphous in black rags. Jonesy squeaked—could he be any more rat-like?—knife glinting. Idiots. True slammed their shovel up in the nick of time to pin Jonesy's knife arm. The metal lion's head on the butt sparked off the brick wall with a wince-worthy clang and a curse from Jonesy. The would-be shadow dweller wavered short of arms-reach, a thin red line opened on the soft tissues beneath its eye.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jonesy shoved True off.

"You," True replied.

They levelled the tip of their shovel at Radio, aimed at the fresh blood. "That counted, we're even." And then, in case it took that as an invitation to join this little clusterfuck they were trying to dump, they added, "fuck outta here."

As if to underline their warning, the merchant moaned, the noise sandwiched between panic and pain. Radio studied her, too-dark eyes flicking from the merchant to Jonesy's knife. It rocked back on its heels and True poked their shovel into its papercut, forcing a wider distance.

"Follow me and I'll put my knife in your eye," they said, pushing past it. They didn't have a knife. They had a shovel, and a gun. Fucking whatever. By the time they'd reached the end of the street, Radio had dissolved into the dark.

Rubber soles scraped on asphalt. The merchant woman yelped, her weight veering True off-balance. The dweller matched her pitch with a screech, they set upon her. Mid-strike her flailing hand hit solid flesh. Fingers disappeared into a rotted mouth. The crunch of broccoli, the snap of green twigs. Her unholy ear-splitting wail did nothing to drown out the snap-crunch of the merchant's fingers breaking. Seconded only by the nauseating tearing of flesh when the dweller shook its head.

Forcing down bile, True jammed their shovel between the undulating mass of dweller and merchant. A wet crackle-pop cut the merchant's cries to a gurgle. The dweller reared back, stringy flesh flinging from its mouth. Gnashing, the dweller lunged teeth-first a True. Bloodshot eyes rolling, a ragged bit of skin stuck between its molars. Its rank breath brough the bile straight back.

Blood pooled beneath them, turning the sidewalk slick. They cracked the shovel handle up into the dweller's jaw. That brough them an inch of space. Which they lost, instantly, to a slip. Hot blood splashed onto their shaking muscles as they hit the concrete hard. The dweller shoved into their personal space. Writhing, sucking air into stalled lungs, they struck out and by sheer luck knocked the dweller.

Where the fuck was Jonesy?

There, loitering at the edge of the tussle. Being useless.

"Jonesy! Knife!" True gasped, trying to snap the cook to action. No luck. They smacked the dweller once more, reached and tore Jonesy's knife from his slimy clutches. The dweller seized their shovel. It hit the brick a few feet away. The dweller dove. True braced. The blade skimmed the dweller's teeth. A sharp thunk, a thud, the knife punched a bruise onto True's sternum and blood showered them. The dweller was dead before its head bounced off the ground, a butcher knife jutting from its open mouth.

The night seethed, predators raced toward the fresh kills, and True allowed themself exactly three seconds to catch their breath. Three seconds to stare at the dried blood on the lion's head. They glanced down, just once, just on a whim, at the bruise on the dead merchant's head.

"Why didn't you do anything?" they asked.

Jonesy was quick with a stammer and a voice notched up two notes. "I don't know, I just—it all happened and—"

"And you wanted her dead before she could tattle on you?" They turned the lion-shaped bruise toward him. He probably should have just stabbed her, but then how would she have lived long enough for him to use her to manipulate True? Jonesy scrambled for an excuse.

"It was an accident."

True quit listening halfway into the lie. They had half a mind to cram their shovel up his squirrelly broken nose, but it had landed out of reach. Wrenching the knife free, they whipped it at him before either of them really had a chance to catch the decision. With a cry, Jonesy crumpled over his leg. The knife skittered off behind him.

The wound would be shallow, True was sure. They didn't have the strength left for a decent blow, no matter how wicked sharp the blade. But it would hurt, and it would fester, and Jonesy was going to deal with that all on his own.

"Oops," they said, and turned their back on him.

"Wait," Jonesy groaned, "wait, you can't leave me."

And yet, they were leaving. They stooped to grab their shovel. Jonesy rambled at their backside.

"It was survival, True, you would have done the same, you hypocrite."

That did it. Against their better judgement, which seemed par for the course these days, they stalked back to him. He'd gotten his hands on the knife. They batted it out of their way, grabbed him by the collar and got real close to his mean, bloodied face.

"You better keep out of my way, because if I ever see you again, I will bite your finger off," they spit, and for good measure they drove their knee into his nice new gash. He dropped, crying in agony, and they left him there.

Let him snake his way through a night in the city without the safety of the merchants he had backstabbed. He had his knife, and he certainly knew how to use it.

Survival, indeed.