”This is a public service message! I repeat! This is a public service message!”
“Yeah, yeah. Heard it dozen times before, jackass…”
“Your local waste disposal unit requires your attention!”
“Right.”
“Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!”
“I would if I could, but the fucker weighs a ton…”
“Bodies can be disposed among normal economy waste!”
“You haven’t seen this carcass. Looks like hazardous material to me…”
“Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!”
“Fuck you.”
“This public service announcement was brought to you by your local waste disposal unit! Have a nice day!”

She threw out the cigarette she had been smoking and closed the window. Turned to look at the man who snored half comatose on a ratty couch behind her. Empty beer cans littered the floor; ashtray on a rickety table near couch was filled to the brim with stubs of cigars.

Three days ago he had arrived, reeking of sweat, booze and blood. Clothes tattered and torn to shreds. Heavy boots leaving muddy prints as he stumbled over the floor to where he lay now. He had polished off the contents of her small fridge, then proceeded to get drunk with the aid of the liquor store downstairs.

She tidied the small apartment, putting away all the signs of the crash, then made some coffee. Good, strong stuff. The kind that made her teeth ache and melted spoons. Just after those tasks she woke him up.

He sat up grumbling, reluctantly, swatting her hands off when she tried to help him. Accepted the coffee she was offering. Drank it greedily before opening his bloodshot eyes.

“How was it?” She asked. He shrugged his shoulders, fished out yet another cigar and lit it before answering.
“The same. Worse. Who the fuck knows?” He spoke slowly, puffing his cigar.
“Did you get out this time?” She asked, knowing the answer already. He shook his head.
“Tried the north corner. No luck. Sewers are blocked as well.”

She made him another cup of coffee. For a long while they sat in silence, then he suddenly snorted, something akin of a grimace or a smile stretching his lips.
“Bring out your dead… Bring out your dead… Why the fuck should we?” He asked.
“And what else could we do?” She asked. He shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know… Bury them? Eat them?”
“Oh, eww… Speaking of which, did you bring anything for me?” She asked.
“Yeah. It’s in my bag.”
“And where’s your bag?”
“I guess it’s somewhere in the sewers. Had an argument with the natives, had to leave it with them.”
“Well, I guess it’s the thought that counts… But you kind of ate everything I had. It’s going to be another week before the next delivery. Any good ideas of what am I going to do until then?” She asked. Logan shrugged his shoulders.
“That old lady living upstairs, she died last night. You could always ransack her stash.”
“She died last night? How would you know… Oh, your nose. Yeah. I better hurry before anybody else gets the same idea…”

The old lady didn’t have much, but it was better than nothing. Few cans of mushroom soup, some stale bread and few cans of anchovies. She hid them in to her clothes before exiting the apartment. Hallways were empty at this time of day, but it was better to be safe than sorry. For a moment she pondered whether she should leave a note on the door, to tell anybody interested that the lady had died, but then decided against it. Next occupant could get rid of the body.

When she returned home Logan had already left. To where, she did not know, but she knew he’d be back eventually.

There was no way out of the ghetto, but trying to find one kept Logan busy and sober, and usually his small trips to the outskirts yielded some kind of loot, be it food or something else useful.