ITS CLOSE TO 11:00 PM. There comes a knock at the door. It cracks open.

Ams stands there, her face haggard and worn. She says she cant sleep. I tell her she shouldnt try. She asks if she can come in, and I tell her Yes. She sits on the bed with me, curls up in the corner, pulling the blankets close to her. Im sitting with my back against the covered window, the oil lantern on my dresser giving me light to write. Her toes press up against my leg. Usually she twirls her toes, she says she likes the feeling, the texture of the blankets. Her toes arent moving now. Shes just staring forward, into the darkness, empty space. I dont ask her what shes thinking about, because I already know. Theres still blood in her fingernails.

Are the doors locked? I croaked back at Kempis Tower. The security guard nodded, said they were. Amos double checked, one of them opened. The security guard cursed, fumbled with his keys. Hurry, I said. No ones coming yet, Amos said. I want the peace of mind, I snapped. He locked the door, and we stayed rooted in place, staring through the windows. The green smoke was billowing north, hugging the ground. I remembered Dad telling me something about how the smoke was heavier than air, how it would sink and crawl along the ground until it spread too thin to be toxic. As long as it wasnt green, hed told me, you were okay. This smoke was definitely green, and police officers and soldiers rushed up Vine Street, throwing glances back over their shoulders, back at the madness. Helicopters flew overhead, banking over the buildings. A tank on Fountain Square was slowly engulfed in smoke; as the smoke wrapped around the turret facing the river, the hatch opened and the soldiers began bailing out, scrambling over the sides and falling to the pavement before dashing north. The last emerged just as the smoke wrapped over him, and he grasped at his throat, pitched against the side of the hatch, fell back into the tank. The smoke kept its monotonous crawl, the tank shrouded in smoke; and then hands reached out of the hatch, groping, and the man pulled himself out and rolled over the tank, onto the ground. He got to his feet, stumbled, began shambling, eyes shifty, fingers

twitching. Several shots rang out and he pitched forward, his body soon vanishing in the smoke. Do you think itll thin out before it gets here? Amos said. The security guard pointed at the soldiers and police officers running up Vine Street, past Kempis Tower. Maybe we should follow them? A tank appeared on Vine Street going towards the river. It stopped in the intersection of 6th and Vine, the turret facing the oncoming smoke. I wondered just what they planned to do, threaten it off? The hatch opened and a soldier pushed his waist from the hatch, began shouting at all those hurrying past. The mans face was bloated red with anger, and you could almost hear his words in the quiet lobby. No one listened to him, everyone knew that the smoke couldnt be survived, not without gas masks, and they didnt have any; the masks were probably still in a Blackhawk being unloaded in the baseball stadium. The man dropped back into the tank and shut the hatch, and I wondered if he knew the smoke could penetrate the machines armor. I didnt want to think about it, the whole crew turning and being locked inside that undying vault. But the tank began to move, the treads going the opposite direction, the driver slowly taking it back the way itd come. The smoke by now had engulfed Fountain Square, and shapes could be seen among the green smoke, the figures of men and women clad in military and law enforcement attire, some dragging their feet, others lurching forward, mere shadows in the green smog. Soldiers appeared now down 6th Street, hurrying with assault rifles slung over their shoulders. They spread out across Vine Street facing Fountain Square, weapons held at the ready. Their leader was shouting something to them and waving at the tank commander, trying to tell him somethingand then the tank stopped as if to take a breath, and it fired, a deafening blast that rattled the windows, and the shell passed into the smoke and detonated somewhere near Fountain Square, the concussion pushing the smoke, acting as a catalyst, so that it wrapped around the makeshift barricades, the soldiers dropping where they stood, writhing about on the pavement. The tank accelerated its reverse, disappearing out of view. The three of us in the lobby stared at the smoke in the intersection, the twisting bodies of the heroic last stand being overtaken by those unlucky enough to escape the smoke. I forced myself to look away, my stomach all up in knots, as the soldiers on the pavement were torn limb-from-limb, their stomachs gutted, their bowels spread out over the pavement. I looked to Amos, his eyes

hard and focused, a stone grimace etched over his face. The scene disappeared as the tank further up Vine Street fired again; this time the shell burst right at the intersection, shredding the victims and attackers in a fury of fire and smoke. The concussion blasted the windows; I had turned my back in disgust at the carnage, and I found myself thrown forward onto the ground, glass raining down all around me. The security guard was screaming. I rolled over and sat up, my jeans covered in glass, the fresh wind blowing in my face, the green smoke stretching with wispy fingers towards the disemboweled lobby.

ITS 11:40 PM and Ams feet are twitching in her sleep. Shes slid down underneath the covers, her head wedged between the wall and a pillow. Shes always liked to cocoon herself. I dont know how shes sleeping. Exhaustion, perhaps. But then again, Im exhausted too, so exhausted I feel like I barely have energy to move. But I cant close my eyes, and I know what sleep will bring, and theres something electric in me, and my heart burns, but not for myself, for her. I bite my lip and close my eyes, and I push away all the thoughts, all the What ifs, all it took to get her back. Shes got blood under her nails and a nasty cut on her leg, but it could be worse. I feel the scars across my cheek, had almost forgotten them. Im thinking in time, not having scars will make you stand out, will make people point and whisper.

The security guard was screaming, gripping his leg. A piece of bloodied glass the size of a grapefruit stuck out of his black pants now soaked with blood. Amos had staggered backwards into a pillar, was standing numbly in place, staring out at the street. Blood crawled down his arm, a grisly but shallow slash across his tattoo of the caged William Kidd, and the blood broke into tributaries across his fingers. I hollered at him and he looked over, eyes glazed over, bits of glass in his beard. I scrambled over to the security guard, and Amos joined me, glass crunching underfoot. I told him we had to move him, get him away from the smoke, and we grabbed him underneath the arms and pulled him through the swinging doors of The Quill, our path marked by a swath of his blood. We set him against the roaster and quickly shut the doors.

Amos said the smoke would still get in; I dashed into the back and grabbed sanitizer towels, began stuffing them under the door, just like Ams and I would do when we smoked weed at our parents house. Amos grabbed a roll of Saran wrap and began drawing sheets across the door. We stepped back to admire our handiwork, done in moments, and wed all but forgotten the security guard until he shouted out again. His face was beginning to pale, his eyes sinking. His lips, they were turning blue. Hes going to bleed out, Amos said. I grabbed more sanitizer rags and knelt beside him, the glass still wedged in his leg. I began wrapping his leg with the glass still embedded, as they teach you to do in those First Aid classes, just taking the towels up over the tip of the glass and down around his calf. The glass was too big, and I couldnt get any pressure on the wound. I knew if I pulled out the glass, with this much blood loss already, itd be the equivalent of uncapping an artery. I looked over my shoulder to tell Amos as much, but he was gone, in the back; I stood and he came out with his hands full of knives from the kitchen prep station. He spread them out on the counter by the cash register. He rejoined me, and we lifted the security guard and carried him to the leather sofa, dropping him gently. He seemed delirious, rambling incoherently. Hes lost too much blood, I told Amos. I know. Hes going into shock. You know theres nothing we can do. Damn it, Anth, I know that. I looked back to the door. The green smoke had drifted into the lobby and pressed up against the door. The makeshift barricade of towels and Saran wrap kept the smoke at bay. The lobby wreathed in smoke was empty, but the street wasnt: everything outside was masked in the green hue, and I remembered that the gas attacks in the New York refugee camps had been able to spread the equivalent of several city blocks before dissipating. I did the calculations in my head; itd start dissipating around ninth or tenth street to the north, maybe spread as far as the Viaduct to the west and to Main Street to the east. I doubted it could reach the stadiums, but there was no way to know. What was for certain, in that moment, was that our route back to the car through the Skywalk was offlimits, blocked by the green smoke; and by the time the smoke cleared, itd be the smokes bounty wed have to worry about, a bounty already evident: those who

were unable to avoid the gas were left shells of their former selves, and they sauntered about the street, mingling around the bus stop, lingering around the fountain. They were grotesque, some quite bloodied, but most were in reasonable shape: if it werent for the hollowness in their eyes, the twitching of their fingers, the way they licked their teeth and chewed on their lips, if it werent for their aimless shambling, you wouldnt think anything of them (except that they belonged in an asylum). The security guard started shouting out again, unquestionably delirious. The sound carried beyond the windows, out into the street. Some of the nearest shamblers paused, looked towards the windows. Make him stop, I snapped at Amos. Amos hovered over the guard. What do you want me to do? Gag him or something, hes drawing attention The guard started screaming, shrieking, hysterical. The shamblers began walking towards the windows, their unified movement attracting the attention of those farther out, who turned and started making their way towards the building. I cursed and ran into the back, grabbed a towel, rushed back out to the sofa. The man was twisting about on the couch, thrashing his leg, the bandages coming loose, the bloodied glass exposed. Amos tried to subdue him, but the security guard was losing it, and he thrashed and the glass stabbed at Amos leg. Amos shouted out and staggered backwards, blood beginning to smear his jeans. He cut me! he bellowed as I scrambled past him and thrust the towel into the mans mouth, muffling the screams. He tried biting down on my fingers, only bruised them. He was quieter now, but it was too late. Shamblers surrounded the bay windows looking into the store. They pressed themselves against the glass, drawing their hands across the panes, groping for a way inside. More were entering the lobby and making their way towards the door. Once the buildings electricity went out, the electric locks would be useless, and the door could easily open, the towels being brushed away, the weak Saran wrap tearing apart. Amos sauntered over to the cash register, his leg still bleeding, the pain sharp, and he grabbed a pair of knives, one in either hand. I reached down for my belt, felt the Ka-Bar in its sheath, wished I hadnt left the handgun in the car. Amos looked at me, said, I think the glass will hold. I nodded, Of course it will.

But then it began to crack, weakened by the concussions from the tanks shells, and the glass webbed out from the pressure of the bodies amassed against it. Amos face drained of blood, and I felt my pulse quicken. Once the glass broke, in would come the smoke, and in would come its bounty.

ITS ALMOST MIDNIGHT. Ams is muttering something in her sleep. There are footsteps out in the wall, but I recognize them: Rob and Mandy. Amos must still be downstairs. And Blake God knows where he is. The paraffin oils low, and Im going to have to save it, and this journal has reached its final pages. Im setting the pen down, and Im hopingand prayingthere will be more of this story to tell. But no one knows what morning will bring.