LITMIR.BIZ

       half hour and four portals later, we’re finally in Prima, and I’m flat on my back and aching. I try not to think about how badly bruised I’m going to be from all the falling down. Instead, I focus on New Prima and how it doesn’t exactly remind me of the brief memory I have of looking down on the city from Barclay’s window.

      For one thing, the stench is awful. It’s some dreadful combination of burning rubber, week-old garbage, and warm sewage. I wrinkle my nose at Barclay and look up.

      The sky is the same iridescent gray that I remember, something that would be beautiful with all the different shimmering colors if it wasn’t crowded by thick, stormlike smog clouds hanging heavy in the air.

      We’re in some kind of alley in what must be New Prima’s red-light district. Instead of the crystal skyscrapers, there are dark, graffiti-covered buildings with neon signs for alcohol, drugs, gambling, sex toys, and hotel rooms by the hour. The skyscrapers must be up there somewhere, since the sun is completely blocked out. It might as well be dusk or early evening.

      But it’s morning, and no one seems to be around—probably because they’re still asleep from whatever they did last night.

      “Did anyone see us portal in?” I ask anyway, since that could potentially blow our cover.

      Barclay shakes his head. “I don’t think so. But if they did, it wouldn’t matter. No one down here would give a shit.”

      I push myself to my feet and hug my jacket a little closer around me as I realize the building across from us has a number of floor-to-ceiling windows that only make sense if they’re lit up and showcasing someone stripping.

      “Pull your hood up,” Barclay says. “We’re safe from being recognized for the moment, but we need to get to my apartment without being seen.”

      He pulls a beanie from his coat pocket and puts it on his head. “Stick close to me; keep your head down. Don’t talk to anyone, and whatever you do, don’t look up.”

      I follow his orders and stay close to his left shoulder as we walk through the alley. Underneath the neon lighting and the flashy signs, the filth matches the smell. There’s trash piled up next to the sidewalks and blocking the gutters, and old rainwater and possibly human waste sits puddled around the trash since it has nowhere to go.

      We turn the corner and head down another alley, through a layer of foul-smelling steam that’s rising up from under the street. Barclay walks fast and keeps his head down, and I find myself almost running to keep up with him.

      Whatever part of Prima this is, it’s not one I want to be hanging out in by myself.

      After a couple more turns, we pass a stand in the street with a sign that says open-air bodega, but really it’s just a guy grilling some kind of meat that looks burned and smells unclean. My stomach shifts uncomfortably as I try not to wonder what kind of meat it actually is. There’s a bulky guy next to the grill, watching a couple of people nearby approach. He’s clearly some kind of guard to make sure no one steals the mystery meat. He catches me looking at him, and his eyes rake over my body while his lips curl into a smile. A shiver moves up my back.

      “Walk faster,” Barclay says without turning around.

      For once, I listen without question.

      We make another turn and pass a homeless guy sleeping on a pile of trash. Next to him, an old metal trash can is smoking from a fire about to die out.

      He lifts his head as we pass him. “How much for your girl, man?”

      I almost expect Barclay to make a joke about selling me to the homeless guy if I don’t follow his orders and cooperate with him, but he doesn’t. And I’m glad.

      Finally we get to a metal building that at least seems well kept. Two guys who look like some kind of cross between military and police are standing guard next to the door. They’re wearing dark fatigues, bulletproof vests, and black boots, and carrying machine guns. As we approach them, their bodies visibly tense, and they adjust their grip on their weapons.

      “I’ll do the talking,” Barclay whispers. I’ve got no problem with that. “And remember to keep your head down.”

      When we’re a little less than five feet away, with guns trained on us, one of the cops shouts, “Hold it right there. Let’s see your tags.”