3

Time's fed runs through the lifeless streets, beside silent buildings of russet tan brick and intricate pargeting. Dead electric engines lay underneath weather worn hoods and bear no witness to blank speed limit, solar panel reminders.

She comes across a cobblestone, foot traffic crossing. At the path centre is a circular, desiccate, cement fountain. An enormous, life like, gray statue of a mal'akh stands upon a pillar in the fountain's middle. The biblical simulacra holds an empyrean sword. Its wings are spread like an albino primate raven about to fly. The insouciant stone face is as genderless as its stone crotch. Gavri'el, maybe?

The remains of the building she detonated powder the upper sky. That place is probably somewhat like the thin smoulder of a collapsed cigarette in an ashtray. The other buildings fume black carcinogens into the heavens, creating a ceiling of immense claustrophobia. The massive fire grows and rages in the past of her steps, in layers of smoke like mists of ash.

Darkness in daylight. Hecate, fuckate. It's hot around here.

Old Sol melts through the smoke and the city boils into the depths of a sweltering humidity. Her head pounds. Calves cramp. Slows her running to the pace of a cripple woman and remembers she hasn't slept in almost two days.

Time's fed planned and armed the destruction of the high rise. The demise of all the people within, solely. She set the detonators and fled and hasn't stopped before or since.

Now exhaustion and dehydration play with the nature of her thoughts. She halts and pants and her stomach stabs itself with the pain of a deteriorating body. Dry heaves.

Something moves in front of her and she catches a glimpse of nothing. More dry heaves. Hallucinations. Nothing is still something. An animal laughs like other animals laughing. Mirthless. High pitch whining. Maybe not hallucinations.

"Heck. Fuck."

The time's fed girl picks an unspecific house and tries to break into the bungalow. She carefully moves two cinder blocks beside a backyard window and places one on top of the other.

Her bleary eyes find a large rock that looks like a giant, warped egg. Grasps the curvy oval and stands on the teeter of the two cinders. Smashes the already cracked bedroom window.

She elbows the rest of the glass from the pane frame and climbs through, hands first and drops onto a thick brown shag. Time's fed crawls through the broken glass and stands in a daze. Witnesses that the room is a teenagers sanctuary. It's full of forgotten posters; dance bands and retro mixes of what were modern video games. A black and white picture of the Egyptian Sphinx watches her like the slouch of Bethlehem above the doorway. The door itself has a bright black poster of a frozen, arctic forest landscape. Words cut across its empty simulacra sky, "It is not the way of the wild to like movement." She thinks of starvation and wolves and frozen sleep. It could've been her room in her previous life. Ten years ago? Time doesn't mean what it once did. She mistook the ticking of clocks for the turning of the world in those days. No more.

She doesn't care if what might've been are in the house. She needs to take the risk of movement right now because of what's inevitable. Needs water, pronto.

Time's fed drops her pink backpack by the window and slides both zippers. Grasps two black water bottles. Exits the comfortable room and walks through a dark, hollow hall to a living room. Finds what she's looking for upon her left. The kitchen.

Time's fed hurries around the centre island and grasps the stainless steel faucet. The ceiling has two skylights, which give off a bright black gloam upon white cabinets and black marble countertops bleeding white veins. They extending across its topography like cartographic rivers.

The walls are the paper of Christmas wrapping, carnations and holly and green and red; weird. Like many things are until they aren't.

Sink's empty. She places the bottle under the tap. Twists the nob. Water pressure. The house still has water. A generator in the city must be working for this to be possible. Are other groups of people responsible? Maybe. She moves the bottle. Guzzles water and wets her face and hair. Fills her bottle and caps it. Guzzles again from the faucet and washes her face. Soaks her hair for a second time. Fills the other bottle.

Her calloused hands takes off her flip flops. Climbs upon the counter to wash her feet in the sink. Fingers between toes and heel rubs. Watches the black water as it funnels down the drain. Sighs and relaxes for a moment.

A second moment. She turns off the faucet and lays back across the counter. Her feet still in the sink. Relaxes. Her eyes watch eyelids. She falls asleep.