The End of All Things

3. The Oppertunist

Five hours before initial detonation.

KANE

Jay watches Brice in awe as he puffs on a cannabis joint, breathing the smoke from his mouth and immediately inhaling through his nose. At sixteen he's a year younger than me, and I'm a year younger than Brice. People always think it's odd that we're friends, since we weren't in the same years at school - and Jay's significantly less of a teenage delinquent - but somehow it just works.

It's lucky Jay's parents agreed to let him go on the four hour flight alone to visit us, I guess that's what being a golden child gets you.

"That's classy," he laughs, shaking his head mockingly.

"I call it the Brice Cook loop de loop," the older boy looks down at Jay from the couch, his signature dopey smile dimpling his cheeks.

"French inhale."

They both look over to the corner of the small dark lounge where I sit in a saggy armchair, repetitively throwing my prized hunting knife into the wall, which is imprinted with hundreds of stab wounds already.

Previous tenants of the flat have treated it in a similar way, so I don't hold a whole lot of respect for the place. The curtains are stained with nicotine, the windows are cracked and there's massive patches missing from the carpet from non-cleanable spillages. Not exactly the beachfront party house we had been hoping to score when Brice and I hauled ass out here six months ago.

Brice shifts around on the couch to look behind at me, pushing his light brown fringe away from his eyes, "a what?"

"The smoking trick," I finally look over to them, my face passive with boredom, "it's already a thing, French inhale."

Brice taps the joint thoughtfully against his lip, "Damn French, I'll think of another."

I turn my stare back to the wall as Brice proceeds to exhale smoke from his mouth, eyes narrowed in concentration as he tries to manipulate it into circles.

Brice eventually declares he's hungry, but the kitchen shelves are barren, so Jay is nominated to go downstairs to the closed corner store to steal some food. He's been gone for a couple of minutes when the wailing of police sirens sounds in the distance, I jump up from my seat and share an 'oh shit' look with Brice as he mutes the TV. 

There's hardly any security unless you come in through the front door of the shop, so we've crafted a hidden trap door that we occasionally slip through when we need something from the store beneath our apartment. Just for, like, emergencies; when we run out of cigarettes or food that we don't feel like paying for. 

I move the curtain and squint into the daylight through the grimy window. Brice stands next to me and we watch as a police car speeds past, then another, and another.

Jay walks into the room and dumps a bag of frozen meals and chocolate bars in the kitchen, joining us with wide eyes, his tan skin a little paler than normal.

"Thought the piggies were after you," Brice nods to the road below where police cars are still flying past, along with the occasional fire engine.

"So did I."

Since the cops aren't after us (for once) we settle back into our comfortable silence. Shafts of light from the mostly obscured windows cut through the smoke, letting me know just how hazy Brice is making the room. I stretch my long legs out in front of me and cradle my knife, mindlessly glancing my thumb over the leather hilt as I sink into my thoughts.