Her eyes were shut but the sounds of the alley began to pull her toward consciousness. She heard panting, and grunting. She lazily opened her eyes to little more than slits. It was still dark, although the black sky teased an underlying grey.
Across the mud and trash-filled alley, Rat had found a companion. The mop of Rat’s shaggy, dark hair rocked in the same rhythm as his tattered blanket. The woman under him appeared to be a slightly less disheveled doppelganger of the crazy woman from the other side of the trash wall.
The young woman stared blankly at the spectacle for only a few seconds before feeling her head droop back to her hands. She had fallen asleep crouched against the cold brick wall sometime during the night. Her back ached from the hours spent in the awkward position. The bandage on her side was beginning to peel away under the stress.
“Wake up!” a rough voice demanded.
Her head popped up. Standing a meter in front of her was Rat. His bushy beard would have given him an almost comical demeanor but for his rancid stench. They were alone in the alley. The sun had risen and the clouds were breaking apart under its gaze.
“You alive, little missy?” the old man inquired. He took a lopsided step toward her, staggering as he leaned on a makeshift cane. The peculiar gait suggested an ailment in his right leg. His trousers had holes in both knees and were thoroughly stained with mud and worse. A mismatched shoe and large boot complimented his threadbare attire. The front of his white undershirt was more absent than not underneath a faded green coat. Above his breast pocket, a frayed patch with the words “Porter Mining” was ripping away from its place. “You hear me, Missy?” He shifted his weight to his left foot and, using his cane, poked at her.
She jerked away from the stick to press her back solidly against the brick wall. “I’m sorry! I’ll leave. I don’t want any trouble,” she blurted out. She tried to stand while keeping her gown and dignity intact.
“Damn right you don’t,” Rat answered sternly. He pointed to the trash that comprised his bed. “Been in this spot for six years. Defended it with blood and bone,” he stated proudly. “The Tory Boys see some stranger squatting here and maybe they think that they might want to move in rent-free. Someone’s always after your stuff in the slums of Waytown.” He cleared his throat with a hack and crudely spat the effort onto the alley.
“Where?” she asked. Her eyes danced from Rat to the rusty wire at her feet.
“Waytown,” he repeated, staring at her. His sneer slowly morphed into a snicker. “You don’t know where ya at? Whoo-boy,” he chuckled. “And I thought my tonic was strong. Whatcha on? Rush?”
She slowly shook her head. “I don’t know what that is.”
“Well, what’s your name, Missy?”
She swallowed and exhaled slowly, working to control her breathing. “My name is…” She fought to finish the sentence. Blank. It’s not even on the tip of my tongue. Her shoulders slumped. Nothing’s there. It’s just a void.
The man staggered back to his bedding. “It’ll come back, Missy,” Rat assured. He smiled through thin, chapped lips. “I’ve seen all kinds of addicts the morning after. They’re all in sorry shape but they get better.” He began to snicker again. “At least they’re better enough to go looking for their next fix come sundown. Bet you’ll be no different, Missy.” He painfully strained toward an opaque, glass bottle peeking from under his blanket.
“Please, let me get that for you.” Missy gave him a wide berth but still managed to retrieve his target before Rat was halfway down to the ground. She looked at the label. Faded words proclaimed it to be a soft drink but the crudely made plastic cork hinted at stronger contents. She thrust the bottle toward him. “Here, Mr. Rat.”
Rat leaned heavily on his cane and finished plopping to the ground with a groan. He reached out and accepted his succor. “Damn weather,” he complained. “Any time we get rain, my joints freeze right up.” He uncorked the container and drank greedily until it emptied. Staring pitifully down the neck of the bottle, he let loose a long sigh. “No more tonic ‘til Wednesday.”
Missy knelt beside the man. He gaped at her before reaching to the right side of her face, his expression twisting into confusion. “What the hell?” Rat’s grimy fingers pulled at the curled, charred hair. “Someone stick your head in a fire?” He made direct eye contact and grunted. “More bloodshot than my own.” A scolding finger wagged at her. “You got a bad habit, Missy. Ain’t gonna live long living the way you do.” His eyes slipped to the neckline of her gown, its simple but ill-fitting cut revealing more than she intended. “And dressed like that, you ain’t gonna enjoy much what happens to you while you’re still breathing.” Missy subconsciously pressed the gown to her chest.
“Who you talking to, Rat?” Missy recognized the crazy woman’s voice from beyond the trash barrier.
Rat slammed his cane against a metal bucket. The noise echoed down the alley even as urine sloshed from the makeshift toilet. “Shut up, you old buzzard!” His face contorted as he looked toward the trash wall. “Goddamned witch! Should’ve never tangoed with you! You keep quiet or I’ll climb over and beat you with my cane.” He regained his composure and turned back toward Missy. “It was a while ago. Man’s got urges,” he said simply, almost by way of apology.
She ignored the topic. “I need help,” she pleaded.
“You sure do,” Rat agreed. “Wanting to change is the first step. That’s what those preachers on the Strip keep screaming.”
“No,” Missy stated emphatically, “I need your help.” She looked down the alley desperately. The odd passersby paid them no attention. She shifted her weight painfully to one side to shield as much of herself from Rat as she could while lifting her gown over her hip. The bandage along her side now seeped a runny red and carried a putrid smell. She quickly pulled the gown back down. “I don’t know where I am or who I am or what’s happened to me,” she stated, tamping down a growing hysteria.
Rat made a face as he inhaled the smell from her wound. “You’re not gonna sleep that off, Missy. Stinks like it’s getting infected. No surprise since you’ve been sleeping in slop.” He shook his head back and forth in disgust. “Young lady oughta take better care of herself.”
She reached out to grab Rat by the shoulder. “I want to! Who will help me?”
“Doc Reynolds at the Beggar’s Market might have a poultice,” Rat answered. “You got any coins?”
Missy lifted empty palms skyward and looked down at her simple, soiled gown.
“Then maybe a preacher on the Strip might help,” he suggested. “I’d never trust one but you ain’t got no options.” He lifted the green bottle to his lips again and tipped it. After several moments of disappointment, Rat looked at Missy. “Whichever one you find won’t like what you’re wearing… or maybe he’ll like it a bit too much.” He chortled although his face showed anything but mirth.
Missy rose and moved back across the alley. She knelt cautiously and retrieved her self-defense wire. “What’s the Strip?”
Rat squinted at her and began to smirk, as if anticipating a punchline. When none came, he shook his head. “You really don’t know, do you? Take a left as you leave and follow the street until you get to First Street. That leads to Eastpoint, the checkpoint into Waytown. That’s the Strip.”
“We’re not in Waytown right now?”
“No, you’re in the shantytown that’s grown up around it. In fact, that’s what we call it. None of us here are citizens so we can’t get in Waytown. Lost my citizenship when the mine took my foot. Still get my disability payment from Porter though.” He paused. “I ain’t sharing it, it’s not even enough for me.” A long sigh passed from him as he stole a glance to the street beyond. “Better than what the worst off get now. Absolutely nothing.”
Missy swallowed. Her cracked lips hinted at a parched throat. “Well, thank you for sharing your alley, Mr. Rat.”
The man flashed a broken smile. “I ain’t sentimental but I’d loan you my coat if I thought you’d still be alive this time tomorrow to give it back.” He rose torturously and shuffled to a half-crushed wooden crate. He dug through the contents before producing a frayed rope. “Here, Missy. You can use this to tie the back of your dress shut. Walking bare ass down the Strip won’t end well unless you got yourself a pimp.”
“Thank you,” she said as she strode forward to take the pathetic cord. Blood stained a long segment of it. She wrapped the rope around her narrow waist and cinched the gown tightly shut, tying a secure knot. The minor adjustment helped ease her sense of vulnerability. With a final nod, she walked down the alley and turned its corner.