Re-start (Level Up - 1) by Dan Sugralinov

Chapter Two. WTF?

"We can't stop here, this is bat country!"

Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

I WALKED GINGERLY, leaping over the rainwater puddles that lay in my way. My left sneaker was falling apart but I didn't feel like fixing it. I couldn't afford to have it fixed, either. A new pair would have to wait. We had too many bills to pay. The rent, the utilities, the Internet. We had groceries to buy. Me, I'd have bought new sneakers first — but luckily, Yanna had her hands firmly on our purse strings.

Our backyard didn't differ much from the others in our district. A classic Russian disaster of dirt, mud and chipped curbs; a paraphernalia of mismatched windows and glazed flaky balconies; discarded plastic bags caught on tree branches and washing lines; garbage spilling out of industrial-size bins. A couple of winters ago, the council had had to do some emergency repairs on the burst waterworks (another Russian classic) so they'd bored through the frozen tarmac, fixed the leak, then covered everything with a layer of earth which now turned into a swamp every time it rained. Nothing to rest one's eye on, really; the first dainty green of the budding trees was the area's only redeeming feature, holding the long-forgotten schooltime promise of approaching summer vacations.

The dilapidated playground at the center had long become a meeting place for the local drunks. Some of them were my age, their development apparently arrested while still teenagers. Others were youngsters running their errands. They were presided over by Yagoza, a sinewy man of indeterminate age, his skin blue with prison tattoos, wearing shapeless track bottoms and a green Che Gevara T-shirt the size of a tent. He was some sort of a criminal authority around here.

Yagoza was smoking a cigarette and sipping beer from a can.

They looked bored and down on their luck. Even from where I stood, I could see they were desperate for something stronger than beer. Beer was like water to them.

One of them was hanging on the kids' monkey bars, apparently imagining himself a gymnast. Seeing me, he jumped down and rubbed his hands together. "Phil? Hi, man."

The others looked up at me, then returned to their beers, disinterested.

Not good. I'd had problems with the guy before. Known under the moniker of Alik, he'd once followed me on my way back from the corner shop. At the time, I'd been in a good mood. I'd just received a nice check from a client so I'd done some grocery shopping to celebrate. Alik and I got talking. I gave him a beer. Once I got home, I promptly forgot everything about our encounter.

He hadn't. From then on, every time he saw me he tried to give me a bear hug and cadge a smoke or a beer.

"Hi, man," I replied unenthusiastically.

He walked over to me and shook my hand while lacing his other arm around my shoulders and slapping my back. His hand brushed my jeans' back pockets as if searching me.

My vision blurred again. I peered at his face but it appeared sort of out of focus.

"Jesus. You alright?" he asked matter-of-factly without a trace of compassion.

"Not really. Wait a sec," I eased him away and rubbed my eyes, peering hard at him.

His face came back into focus. His eyes were framed with the thickest, longest eyelashes I'd ever seen. I'd never noticed them before. He must have been a very pretty child before life had had its way with him.

A pockmarked face with oily skin. A broken lopsided nose. Nicotine-yellow teeth. Greasy hair...

And what the hell was that?