Back at the Bliss Town Mall, Claribel and Lexia sit at a fake wood table in the food court, ignoring a ring of customers keeping their distance from the pair. Bright LED lights glare from above, food sizzles and people shout orders from their lots, and customers carefully carry their trays with sour looks on their faces as their wallets suffer from the high prices.

  Lexia has three orders of crispy tenders in front of her, plus an extra box of fries, and spicy onion rings. Claribel is poking at a small bowl of noodles with vegetables and chicken bits. Next to the noodles is a large soda, and her tail curled close by and occasionally rattling as she catches glimpses of the customers staring at her with contempt. Claribel has also changed out of her donated clothes and is now wearing the schoolgirl outfit Lexia bought her.

  Lexia dips a tender in a mix of mayo, ketchup, and mustard, and bites off half of it. As she chews, she dips again, and Claribel sighs and looks at her stack of bags, her red and white shoe tapping against the dirty tile and tail rattling again.

  “Lexia, can we go to your place now? Please?” says Claribel.

  “Now?” says Lexia, her mouth full of chewed food.

  “Yes. I’d like to drop off my computer stuff and then go back to the hotel to drop off my remaining stuff.”

  “We’ll go when we’re done eating.” Lexia swallows and puts the second half of the tender in her mouth, speaking as she chews. “How much are you paying for your stay at the hotel, anyway?”

  “Five hundred for five days,” replies Claribel.

  Lexia stops chewing, and Claribel watches her noodles wrap around her slow spinning fork.

  “Fifty bucks per person per day,” continues Claribel. She lifts her plastic fork, eyes on the blob of noodle, peas, and chicken bits. She rests her cheek on her fist, eyelids drooping and her scaly brown lips sagging to a frown. “Mortimer doesn’t know this, but I used the last of my money to pay for the hotel stay. Whatever money we have left is with him, and he’s been using it to buy food.”

  Lexia chews slowly, and swallows. Her brown eyes flick from Claribel’s melancholy face, the noodles, her plate of food and back to Claribel.

  “So, by that you mean…?” begins Lexia.

  “We’ll be homeless by the end of the week,” finishes Claribel.

  Lexia drums her fingers on the table. She reaches for a tender. Stops. Changes to an onion ring. Stops. Goes her fries and dips it in her concoction.

  “Do you have any friends or family nearby?” asks Lexia.

  Claribel keeps her cheek on her fist, her red-slit eyes locked on Lexia, completely unimpressed with the question.

  “Right. Your problems and stuff,” says Lexia. She rubs her chin and quickly dips another fry in her mix. “I mean, okay, you got… problems. Okay… problems… Um, are you sure you don’t have any more money you can use to extend your hotel stay?”

  Claribel keeps staring at Lexia. Her roll of noodles now sliding off and plopping back in its bowl with a wet slap. Lexia meets the snake’s expression with a hasty chewing of her fry.

  “Okay,” sighs Lexia. “We have a problem, then. I mean you and Mortimer have a problem, and I…”

  Lexia stops talking. Claribel has yet to move from her position or change her expression. Lexia takes a deep breath and bows her head to scratch her hair. She feels her heart rattling against her ribs and her throat tightens as her lungs shrivel and expand rapidly.

  “Okay, bear with me. I was not expecting this day to go like this, and this unexpectedness on top of the other unexpectedness is just… weirding me out,” says Lexia.

  Claribel’s brow arches. “Are you about to have a panic attack?”

  “Me? No!” Lexia chuckles, pops open a small bottle, shakes out a couple of pills, and plops them in her mouth. She drowns the pills in her soda, and makes a sharp, dramatic exhale. She takes another deep breath and puts her hands on the table, focused intently on Claribel. “Okay, I have a proposition for you. I’ll let you stay at my burrow. Only you, though. After you finish your stay at the hotel. They don’t refund stays, so get your money’s worth.”

  “They also have free breakfasts,” says Claribel dryly.

  “Right. Take advantage of that!”

  “And why only me? Why not Mortimer as well.”

  “Because there isn’t enough room, and I don’t want to be responsible for two people. He can hang out with Jayson. His burrow is not nearly as nice as mine, but it's something.”

  “Jayson… The hobo warrior?”

  Lexia nods. “Yeah. Mortimer will be fine. And if that doesn’t work then he can crash at Derrick’s place.”

  “Derrick tortured Mortimer!” yells Claribel, slamming her hands down. “Also… Derrick’s in the hospital.”

  “Then we can ask Bridgette if Mortimer can stay with her.”

  “Who’s Bridgette?”

  “A MILF eagle that has the hots for Derrick. She’s bad at hiding it.”

  Claribel rolls her eyes and eats some of her noodles. “Whatever. I just want to drop off my stuff at your burrow. We can work out where Mortimer is going to stay when we’re all together.”

  “Great! Then I can give you a tour of my place, and if all goes well, we can go to the park, and I can bring my homemade chili!”

  Lexia squeaks and claps her hands together, leading to Claribel scrunching her snout.

  “It'll be like an official peace ceremony between you guys and Team Lexia,” says Lexia.

  “Your mood swings are nuts,” says Claribel. She eats some more of her noodles. “But that aside, I wonder how Mortimer and Jayson are doing, anyway.”

  Lexia swirls her chicken tender in her sauce and plops it in her mouth. “I'm sure they're fine.”

  *****

  “I'M NOT FINE! THIS IS SO FAR FROM FINE!” screams Mortimer, tail puffy, eyes wide, and the light swinging wildly as he frantically pumps his arms and legs.

  Jayson runs next to him, fur bristled, his eyes also bulging, and his heart racing. “WE'LL BE FINE WHEN WE GET OUT OF HERE!”

  “HATHATHATHATHATHATHATHATHAT!” cackles Carlos, skittering after them like a big bug.

  Jayson’s feet barely find traction on the fire-dusted asphalt, every step a near jump. He doesn’t look back. He can feel Carlos right behind them. The cackle, the slapping claws, the disgusting click of joints popping in ways no body ever should, all of it is echoing in the desolate tunnel. The flashlight jitters in Mortimer’s palm, beam slicing wild arcs through the pitch black.

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  Then Jayson’s legs blur, but the warehouse is nothing but broken metal and slabs of rubble. Every time Jayson tries to go full speed, he slams into concrete or careens head-first into a twisted rebar tangle, leading to sharp pain and loud curses from him as he ricochets off rubble or slips on ash. Then, as he attempts to run again, his jumping movements lead to him hitting a beam headfirst, and he crashes into the ground, slides on an ashy, tilted strip, and his scream fades as the darkness swallows him whole.

  Mortimer stretches his hand out to Jayson, eyes wide and wet, and hands sparking. “JAYSON, NOOOOO~!”

  Carlos’s laugh echoes so close Mortimer that he swears he feels the heat of a breath on his neck.

  Mortimer swings the flashlight backwards and half-turns. Carlos is right there, eyes pulsing crimson in the dark, lips peeled back so far Mortimer can see every fang, every blackened gum. Carlos’s arms bend sideways at the elbows, claws digging into the floor to drive him faster. His back is arched, spine shivering, and his legs unfold with each stride, popping the joints loud enough to make Mortimer’s stomach turn.

  “BACK YOU DEVIL!” yells Mortimer, snapping his free hand up. A blinding spurt of electricity explodes from his palm, lighting the tunnel for a blink.

  Carlos takes the blast right to the face. For a normal person, it’d be over. But Carlos just vibrates in place, teeth clenched and every limb jittering. But after a split second, he launches forward—smoke rolling off his matted fur, cackling so hard spit flies from his mouth.

  “Gimmehatgimmehatgimmehatgimmehatgimmehat!” shrieks Carlos. Another joint pops, his right arm triples in length, and the claws swoop for Mortimer’s chest.

  Mortimer ducks just in time. The claws rake through the air, missing him by inches. He sprints, slamming his shoulder into a burnt crate and bouncing off, barely staying upright.

  Mortimer scrambles upright, gasping for air, his side cramping, and the only light is the panicked beam of his flickering flashlight. Concrete blocks jut out of the ground at random. Metal beams dangle overhead like rusted spiderwebs. The air smells like electrical fire, burnt fur, and old chemicals.

  Behind him are rapid, arrhythmic thumps, and the stomps and scrapes and crunches of Carlos’s claws with every rapid step.

  Mortimer barrels through a collapsed doorway, the frame exploding into splinters under his arm. He slides on black soot, whirls, and the coyote is there. Carlos sticks his head through the opening, his neck bending sideways, his eyes rolling in opposite directions.

  “HERE’S CARLOS!” says Carlos.

  Mortimer blasts him with a jolt of electricity, knocking him off his feet. But then Carlos spins back to his feet, shoulders and head rolling as smoke rises from his burnt body. His bones pops audibly back into place, and Carlos grins, eyes bloodshot and leaking tears down his cheeks as he marches forward.

  Mortimer stumbles back. “Oh, you are just… NOPE!”

  He throws a punch. Carlos intercepts, grabbing Mortimer’s wrist with two hands, both arms elongating and twisting around Mortimer’s forearm so they spiral up almost to his elbow. Claws dig in, not breaking skin but pinching hard enough to make Mortimer wince.

  Mortimer channels electricity through his veins. The spark pops between them, electric bolts arcing down his arm into Carlos’s hands.

  Carlos snorts, twitches, and climbs on Mortimer, his nose nearly touching Mortimer's, his smile splitting wider, and saliva dripping from his lips.

  “Hat!” yells Carlos. “It’sHATIt’sHatIt’sHAT! GimmeGimmeGimmeGimme!”

  “GET THE HELL OFF ME!” Mortimer spins in circles and wrestles with Carlos, the flashlight clattering to the floor and spinning in lazy circles. Everything becomes flashes of light and dark, the cycles briefly illuminating burnt brick, ash covered floors, wires, flailing Carlos and Mortimer, and streaks of electricity.

  Mortimer punches Carlos in the face with a burst of electricity, sending sparks spattering across the coyote’s muzzle. In response, Carlos shrieks, then flips Mortimer to the ground.

  Mortimer loses all air upon hitting the floor, and Carlos jumps and lands knees-first on his ribs with a loud crunch and howl of rage and pain from Mortimer.

  “AGH! DAMN IT! SON OF A BITCH!” curses Mortimer, rolling. His hand desperately grabs his flashlight. He whips it up, swinging for Carlos’s head. It connects with a loud crack and Carlos crashes to the ground, laughing, his mouth filling with blood, and his tongue lolls out, quivery and purple.

  “Yesssss… fightME… fightME… Fightmeforthehat!” says Carlos.

  Mortimer zaps him with a quick spark, causing Carlos’s arm to spasm and flop to the ground, then follows with an uppercut that catches Carlos in the jaw. But Carlos recovers instantly, snarling.

  “Outta the way!” yells Jayson suddenly, cannonballing through the dark.

  He rams Mortimer and Carlos, bowling both down the hallway. Burnt structure buckle under the impact. Mortimer and Jayson tumble together across the floor, leaving a large streak of cleared out ash and barely missing a tangle of exposed wire.

  Jayson gets to his feet first, eyes wide, fur coated in soot and ash. He’s breathing like he ran ten marathons, but the rabbit doesn’t stop. The muscles in Jayson's legs twitch, the tingling makes him feel like a pro-wrestler on a caffeine rush.

  Mortimer staggers upright, re-orients the flashlight, and points it into the cloud of dust. Carlos is crawling on the ceiling. Upside-down. The claws are sunk deep in the cracked, burnt concrete above them, and his head twists 180 to stare at them.

  “There. Up. Get that guy,” gasps Mortimer.

  Jayson draws his cosmic wood sword. When he wraps his hands around it, it pulses its ghostly blue color, and Carlos drops from the ceiling, landing spider-like on all fours with a slap and a puff of ash and dust.

  He sprints for the pair, arms and legs going in weird, choppy angles, head lolling from side to side.

  Jayson immediately launched himself at Carlos. The tingling in his legs go wild and suddenly Jayson is moving twice as fast as his brain can process. He aims a flying kick at Carlos’s jaw.

  His raggedy boot collides with Carlos’s face. The coyote’s face caves in, eyes bugging out, teeth scattering from his mouth. Then time snaps back, and Carlos peels backwards with a yelp, rolling.

  Jayson slams into the wall behind him. Hard. He rebounds, rolls backwards, and hops to his feet, staggering to a stop. The cosmic wood sword pulses as he uses it to stay upright.

  Mortimer moves forward, hands up, electricity pulsing between his fingertips.

  Carlos rebounds off the ground, limbs pinwheeling, and he goes for the pair again.

  “Hathathathathat!” rambles Carlos. The word is a machine gun, each syllable launching him forward another foot.

  Mortimer groans in agitation, Jayson twirls his weapon, and they run towards Carlos.

  The fight becomes a blur of insane motion. Jayson jumping and smashing, missing more than he hits because every time he leaps, he slams into a new pile of debris. Mortimer, electricity firing nonstop, charring the air and turning the world into strobe-light combat. Carlos, never upright, never regular, always crawling, grabbing, twisting, bending double or quadruple.

  At one point, Jayson’s supercharged legs send him soaring over a stack of barrels, but he botches the landing and face-plants in burnt insulation. Jayson shakes his head, spits out insulation, and launches back into the fray.

  Carlos, meanwhile, absorbs a direct hit from Mortimer’s electric pulse, kicks the fox away, spins in the air, grabs Jayson, and uses the moment to throw him to the ground.

  Jayson curses painfully, and Carlos jumps on top of him, drooling and grinning, fangs centimeters from Jayson’s eye.

  “Your face will make a nice hat!” says Carlos.

  Mortimer throws his arm around Carlos’s neck, and crackles a jolt of electricity straight to the coyote’s skull.

  Carlos writhes, every muscle spasming, and blood drips down his face in little droplets. Mortimer and Jayson trade a quick look, and and nod.

  “Three. Two. One. NOW!” says Mortimer.

  Mortimer throws the dazed Carlos aside, and Jayson yells and launches forward, shoulder-first, using his cosmic wood sword like a battering ram, hitting Carlos point-blank in the chest.

  A burst of blue aura explodes outward, slowing everything down around Jayson, and the impact knocks Carlos off his feet. Even the layered, painful scream slows along with Mortimer's cheer and fist pump.

  When the aura disappears, Carlos rockets away from them, disappearing into the dark tunnel with his fading scream. Seconds later, there is a distant echo of multiple small thuds leading up to one final, hard bang.

  Then comes the silence and Mortimer and Jayson’s panting and wheezing. Mortimer sways, nearly tips over, but catches himself on a burnt-out pipe. Jayson crouches, one hand on his chest, breathing like he’s dying.

  Neither says a word for a full minute before Mortimer plucks his flashlight off the ground and walk away.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” says Mortimer.

  Jayson nods. “Yeah…”

  They hobble forward, tripping twice in the first five feet because their legs work about as well as rotten celery sticks. Mortimer’s flashlight is almost dead, but he keeps it up sweeping every shadow, every crevice, in case Carlos makes a comeback.

  They keep moving. Every sound sends a fresh spike of adrenaline through their veins. But ten minutes later, a dull gray light appears up ahead. The corridor opens, and the chemical stink mixes with honest-to-God fresh air. Blue light leaks in from a distant hole in the ruins.

  Mortimer and Jayson stagger for it, even managing a weak sprint for the final stretch. They stumble out of the darkness, trip into a heap on the asphalt on a hidden road. The noise of the interstate nearby, and they lie there, on their backs, gasping, staring at the weird blue cracks in the sky above.

  Nobody laughs.

  It takes maybe five solid minutes before anybody even twitches. Then Mortimer drags himself upright, face smeared with dust, ears drooped, and he pats Jayson's shoulder hard and sloppy.

  “We did it,” wheezes Mortimer. “Now Claribel owes me big time.”

  Jayson manages a ragged chuckle. “What’s the price?”

  “I don't know yet.”

  They sit there, side-by-side, wincing with every breath and bleeding from wounds they didn't know they had. The afternoon wind drifts in. Somewhere, a bird screeches.

  Time passes. Jayson stands, shakes ash off his head, and tugs Mortimer up by the collar.

  “Come on. Let’s get the hat back to Claribel. Maybe get some ice,” says Jayson.

  “Or a beer,” suggests Mortimer.

  “A beer works.”

  They shuffle forward, leaving the caved-in factory and the awful, echoing memory of Carlos Guac behind.