Zane Holt trudged through Iron Hollow's west end, the late afternoon sun sinking behind a line of factory roofs. His denim jacket hung loose, the torn elbow flapping as a sharp wind cut through.
He'd spent the morning scrounging at a junkyard; two bucks for a pile of copper wire, barely enough for a burger at the diner. Now his stomach growled and his boots scraped gravel along a potholed road.
The air carried a mix of diesel fumes and burnt sugar from a candy factory three miles off, its smokestack puffing faint white plumes into the gray sky.
Marco had tracked him down an hour ago; not by phone, but through a kid on a skateboard who'd rolled up with a crumpled note: 'Trailer park. Twitch. Five hundred. Get it. —M.' No pleasantries, just orders scratched in ballpoint pen.
Zane had stuffed the paper in his pocket knowing Marco wasn't asking. He'd dodged cooking yesterday, but this job meant Marco wasn't letting him slide back to the edges.
The trailer park loomed ahead, a sprawl of dented aluminum boxes and sagging clotheslines tucked against a dead railroad track.
He passed a burned-out shell of a Chevy Impala, its windows smashed and tires long gone.
A woman in a frayed bathrobe leaned on a porch rail, shouting at a toddler waddling through mud with a stick. The kid ignored her, smacking a rusted oil drum that clanged dully. Farther in, a generator hummed behind one trailer, its exhaust spitting black smoke into the chill.
Zane's nose wrinkled at the stench; rotting garbage piled near a dumpster, flies buzzing over split bags.
Twitch's trailer sat third from the end, its siding streaked with rust, a plastic lawn chair tipped over out front. The windows glowed orange through tattered curtains, and a bass thump leaked out—some metal band, guitars screeching over a tapedeck's warble.
Zane banged on the door with his fist, three hard knocks. The music cut off mid-riff and footsteps shuffled inside. The door swung open revealing Bobby "Twitch" Malone, all bones and jitters in a stained Metallica shirt.
His eyes were bloodshot, pupils pinpricks, a nervous grin twitching on his lips."Zane, my man! Didn't expect you droppin' by." Twitch's voice cracked, too high. He scratched at a scab on his neck. "Wanna hang? Got some chips inside."
Zane stayed put with hands shoved in his jeans. "Marco's five hundred Twitch. Hand it over."
Twitch's grin faltered, his fingers tapping fast against the doorframe. "Yeah, uh, it's comin', dude. Real soon." He ducked inside, waving Zane to follow.
"C'mon, I'll show ya somethin'." Zane stepped in, the trailer's heat thick with sweat and stale weed. The floor creaked under linoleum curling at the edges, littered with crumpled foil and a tipped-over ashtray. A card table sat in the corner piled with empty Mountain Dew cans and a boombox, its cassette door hanging loose.
Twitch rummaged under a pile of dirty clothes, pulling out a small baggie of powder; white and clumpy, not like Marco's usual crystals. "Here, man, this'll cover it," Twitch said, tossing it to Zane like it was a hot potato. "Good shit, I swear."
Zane caught it, the plastic warm against his palm. He brushed the powder expecting meth's familiar snap, but got a slow oily pulse instead; something heavier cut with a chemical tang he couldn't pin down.
His gut twisted. "This ain't Marco's Twitch. Where'd you score it?" Twitch's laugh came out shrill, his hands flapping. "Fuck, Zane, don't trip! It's just a side thing y'know? Still moves fast." He paced, boots scuffing the floor.
"New crew rolled in; big talkers from Chicago or some shit. Dropped this off cheap."
Zane held the baggie up squinting at it. "Marco don't share his sandbox. Who's runnin' 'em?"
Twitch froze, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Man, I ain't sayin' much. They got this chick with crazy eyes and carries a blade long as your arm. Said if I blab she'd carve my tongue out." He hugged himself, rocking slightly. "I'm fucked either way, Zane."
Zane's mouth went dry. Chicago could mean the Kings, but a woman with a knife sounded like cartel whispers; Marco's bad batches weren't random. He dropped the baggie on the table, powder puffing out.
"You're skimming Marco to buy this junk? He'll bury you Twitch."
Twitch lunged for it, scooping it up with shaky hands. "I ain't got the five hundred alright? Spent it on this to flip it; thought I'd square up quick!" His voice broke with eyes wet. "Tell Marco I'm good for it, man, please!"
Zane crossed his arms, staring down at the kid; skinny and strung out, a mirror of Cheryl's worst nights. "Marco don't wait. You got till sundown tomorrow. Cough up the cash, or he sends someone who don't talk."
He turned for the door, pausing. "And ditch that shit. It's trouble." Twitch whimpered, clutching the baggie like a lifeline.
Zane stepped outside, the cold air slapping his face. The trailer park was quiet and the generator's hum fading into a low drone.
He started down the gravel path then caught a glint; sunlight bouncing off a black sedan parked near the tracks. Tinted windows, two antennas spiking up and engine idling soft. Not a local rig and not a cop's either.
Zane's pulse jumped. He veered right cutting through a gap between trailers, their aluminum walls cold against his shoulder as he slipped out of sight.
He took the long way back, sticking to alleys where streetlights flickered weak yellow beams. The burger money burned in his pocket, but his appetite was gone.
He climbed the stairs to his apartment, the lock sticking as he shoved the door open. Inside, he sank into a chair, the wood creaking under him. Twitch's panic, that weird powder and the sedan; it wasn't just Marco's mess anymore.
Something bigger was sniffing around Iron Hollow, and Zane was tangled in it whether he liked it or not.