Luna Proxy 1(2)

My eyes lowered to his gut. "Maybe you are, but we'll move in there tomorrow."

"You'll have to put down a damage deposit," he warned me.

I crossed my arms over his chest and smiled. "Only if you're going to vouch for all the damage that's already there."

Meyer's face took on a sullen expression and he turned away. "Never mind. . ." he muttered.

I walked out before he could pull any more of his bullshit on me. None of the apartments in his building were worth a damage deposit. Besides, he didn't want any building inspectors to settle a damage deposit dispute. That would've meant an inspection, and he paid off the usual inspector to keep the building from being condemned.

Life in the city was good, but only for those who could afford that life.

I walked outside. The new apartment would let me store more food, and with a guy in residence I would need a larger haul.

I paused on the stoop and looked up and down the long, curved street. The apartment building sat on the crest of a hill, and both directions disappeared over the horizon. On either side of the street were dingy structures. Some had old air conditioners that stuck out of windows. Others had cracked windows repaired with various colors of duct tape. A few homeless sat in the shadows of the narrow alleys that broke the long lines of buildings into small blocks.

I walked down the cracked steps and made my way to the small grocery down the block. It was a miserable city with its smoggy air and dirty buildings. The people wouldn't look you in the eyes except when they wanted to steal something from you. Gangs protected their block territory with knives when they outnumbered their enemies, and with guns when they didn't.

I passed the mouth of a rat-infested alley. A few gang members in dark blue coats whistled at me.

"Hey, baby, whatcha doing tonight?" one of them asked me.

"Why don't you stop for a while?" another wondered.

"Maybe later, boys," I replied.

In this city rats came in all sizes. You had to throw them some cheese to get them off your back. My cheese were promises to get back to them. I never kept them.

I bought a couple of things at the small five-n-dime and walked out of there with two paper bags filled with food. I paused and looked up at the obscured skyline. One of the buildings stood out from the rest as a behemoth of artifice. The structure was built in the shape of a capital 'I.' At the distance top sat a stone castle. The Middle Ages copy cast its shadow over the city and lorded over us like an ancient god from some forgotten past.

The place was called Indigo Towers, and was home to the richest man in the city, William A. Fox.

I shook myself from my reverie and started back home. The boys probably waited for me to keep my promise, so I walked back along a different route. This one took me down the street on the other side of the opposite block. That meant I had an alley to walk down to reach the stoop of my apartment building.

I reached my turn and stepped into the dank, narrow passage that city officials called an alley. The brick walls of the parallel buildings were so close to each other that two men couldn't walk side-by-side. I skirted the overturned, rusted garbage cans and cardboard boxes people called home. Ragged blankets and empty food wrappers littered the place, but the homeless were gone. It was daytime, and that meant panhandling at the more populated and pitying corners.

A noise came from behind me. I spun around. The bag in my right hand dropped to the ground as I reached behind me for the 9mm pistol hidden inside my coat. I looked for the danger. An empty can of beans stopped rolling ten feet from me. No one was in sight to make it move.

"Hello?" I called out. I pulled out the gun. My eyes swept over the alley. There was only shadows and garbage cans, but anyone except a giant could've hidden behind all that trash. "Is anyone there?"

Nothing. The alley was as still as the grave. I re-holstered my gun and picked up the soiled bag. It'd fallen into a puddle. Typical. I turned away from the can.

"Ulric."

My eyes widened. My pulse quickened. I whipped my head around. The alley was still empty, but I no longer felt alone. Someone was there, and they knew my last name.

I strode forward, but with my gaze ever over my shoulder. Nothing moved, but that feeling of being followed never left me. I hurried down the long length of the alley and burst onto the street. The weak sunlight above me lessened the fear of the shadows behind me, but I still sprinted across the street to the stoop of my apartment building.

I paused at the door and turned around. A single car passed by. The shadowed mouth of the alley stared back at me, but all was still and quiet. I frowned.

"Just my imagination. . ." I murmured.

I unlocked the door and walked up to my apartment. The dingy place would soon be forgotten, but not before I packed up everything that belonged to me. I put the food away and got to work on my bedroom. The bed belonged to me, but it was so old a move would probably make it fall apart. I'd buy a new one later.

I went to the small closet and pulled out my clothes and shoes. A pile of cardboard boxes sat in one corner. I pulled them out and pulled off the lid of the top one. A silver chain with four beads at the bottom glistened in the dim light from the ancient bulb over my head. The center two beads were larger than the two on either side of them. I lifted the chain and held it in front of my face.

The beads and chain were all made from silver. It was a gift from my mom, but I never liked the thing. The beads were heavy, and the clasp would never stay shut. I glanced at the closet. Now that my clothes didn't hang inside I could see the walls. The darkest corner had a small nail driven into the wall. I walked over and hung the chain there. It would be a testament to my having been there. A memorial, if you would.

I finished my perusal of the boxes.

"Junk. . ." I muttered.

Most of it would be thrown out. I packed my clothes in the empty boxes and walked into the living room with my arms full.

Something to my left caught my attention. I turned and looked out the window. The window led out onto the rickety old fire escape. I frowned. I swore I saw a shadow out there.

I set the boxes down on the couch and went over to the window. It was shut tight, but a few good pulls got it open. I stuck my head out and looked up and down. Nothing. I pulled myself half inside when my eyes caught on something on the escape and beneath the window. I leaned down and plucked it off the grates.

Hair. Dark brownish-black hair from an animal. Not human, but close to a dog or cat. I shrugged and opened my fingers. The fur floated down and slipped between the grates. Probably a stray cat exploring the area looking for free handouts.

I finished my packing and waited for tomorrow to bring me a fresh beginning to a new life.





CHAPTER 3





The next morning came dull and early. I got up and fetched a key from Meyer to enter the new apartment. He grudgingly acquiesced, and I packed my few boxes into the empty rooms.

The new apartment was three times larger than my old one, and my early arrival meant I had first choice of bedrooms. The two sat down a short hallway on opposite walls, and the bathroom door was situated at the end of the hall. I chose the bedroom on the right. The left one was larger, but there was only one window. The air in the city was dirty, but I liked to see the moon the few times when it made its appearance.

The packing was finished before another, more important duty interrupted the task: work. I climbed into my beat-up old piece of junk of a car and drove to those towers of human achievement. The commercial district was a hub of activity as everyone scurried to their places of work. Buses and taxis sped past my car as other vehicles like my own surrounded me. I was boxed in, trapped like a rat in a maze of mankind's own creation. My only salvation was also of mankind's doing: the office job.

I parked in the underground parking of the Fama Front Report office building, the paper for which I worked. My job took me beneath the ground to the basement floor. A pair of steel doors behind the underground parking elevator led me, and the mail carrier, into the cavernous basement.

The walls were unadorned concrete and the few rooms were sealed by plain, heavy wooden doors with knobs so old the paint had long ago worn off to reveal the metallic material. A few of the rooms were offices, but there was a large room situated close to the interior elevators of the building. The room was filled with short, rickety tables that rocked when you put five pounds on them. The mail carrier dumped twice that weight on each of the dozen tables. I followed behind the man as he hefted in bag after bag.

One of the office doors was connected to the large room. A thin man of middle age stepped out and frowned. This was my boss, Elliott Booker.

"You're almost late," he scolded me.

"'Almost' being the important word," I returned as I shed my coat near the door.

His eyebrows crashed down. "Don't think because you're fast at sorting I wouldn't fire you in an moment. There's plenty of unemployed journalism students who would kill to have your position."

I turned to him and smiled. "But do you really want to work with them?"

"No, and that's why I'm giving you a warning rather than tossing you out on the street for your lip," he retorted. He jerked his head over his shoulder in the direction of the tables. "Now get to work before the piles collapse those tables."

I stepped up to a table and looked through the piles of mail. This was the slush fund for the newspaper industry. Every day we received hundreds of tips, letters to the editor, and resumes. All that mess had to be sorted and delivered to the appropriate office. That meant browsing the address on the back of the envelope or the contents for clues to which department was indebted to them for more work.