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They climbed down three stories of dilapidated stairs and rickety ladders.

The building was occupied in the lower floors, ruined but clean, and with the green vines everywhere with the white flowers—maybe that was the only thing keeping the building up. They stopped on the thirtieth floor—fuck that had been a climb—where a heavy scent of cooking vegetables filled the air. The smell made her mouth water; all she'd had was that stick of Chew 20 and half a liter of bourbon. Her stomach growled. Hemu lead her to a line of scraggly-looking men and women and handed her a bowl carved of wood. They followed the line to a huge pot, repurposed from an industrial container of some sort, full of bubbling stew. They were served by baggy old women and then found a place alone in a corner by a window. It was dark and hard to see without night vision, but the hips didn't seem to have a problem. There were fires, which seemed like a terrible idea, but they were careful to contain them in drums and piles of rocks, and the whole wide floor flickered between light and s…

The thought hit her hard—peace.

That was the word. The quiet, the calm around the area, the green things growing everywhere and the flowers. And she hadn't seen an elzi in hours. She could believe that there was something here, a God, a gas leak, a fluke of topography that made it desirable real estate. From No Dogs in Philly: A Lovecraftian Cyberpunk Noir. Rated R. FREE forever on Amazon, iBooks, Smashwords, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, and Google Play. (Amazon users: If the book does not show as free, please log in!)

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The girl had been bound and gagged, trussed up like a turkey, no signs of a struggle—she’d probably thought it was part of the game.

They'd slit her throat and then let the blood run into a trench about four inches deep, two feet wide, and four feet long. Now the trench was a rectangle of black, crusty, mud, like a giant chocolate bar. They'd scooped out the girl's eyes, cleanly, and then laid her down, spread her legs and arms, and unraveled her veins to make a blood angel in the dirt. It was the sixth girl in two weeks, and all Saru could feel—aside from an urge to fill the trench with vomit—was relief. This wasn't the girl; this wasn't her girl. She knew because of the flower in her hair. This was just a poor, sad, desperate woman who happened to have unusually bright blue eyes—she assumed. From No Dogs in Philly: A Lovecraftian Cyberpunk Noir. Rated R. FREE forever on Amazon, iBooks, Smashwords, Kobo, Barnes & Noble, and Google Play. (Amazon users: If the book does not show as free, please log in!)

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