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Chapter 4: The Emperor

The former art gallery had been empty for some time.

It was a squat, one-story place. The interior had originally been one big, open area. The owners of the gallery, however, had put up a few temporary walls, to create corners and nooks, in order to create little almost-rooms.

Then, after everything fell apart, someone took over the empty space - and they started using it to host parties, apparently. They took down the temporary walls, and they cleaned - the place had, indeed, been empty for nearly a year.

As Rex and I stood and stared at the building, this was explained to us by a short Tiger dressed in torn jeans and a scuffed, plaid shirt.

“Yeah,” the Tiger was saying. “Once, sometimes twice, a week, this was the place to go to. Safe, kinda remote and hidden, small crowds. Just a couple dozen folks, having a good time. You know? We had some fun parties here - not loud, or outta control, nothin’ like that. Just a good time.”

I looked at Rex, and I could see the disappointment on his face.

I wanted to console him, while at the same time I privately noted to myself how ironic the whole thing was.

Rex and I had become friends, after the world fell apart, and we’d been sharing a small office as a makeshift “home” for about three months. We had pretty much hidden ourselves away from everything. We didn’t go out much. There were places we went to get food, of course, and there was a closed-down (and empty) clinic where we would take showers and do laundry.

Also, there was a former warehouse which had been turned into - well - a place for anything and everything. Folks there set up folding tables, and they would buy and sell things, things like food, and batteries, and clothing. Other folks there sold pleasure, or drugs, or other ways to distract yourself from the chaos of the fallen city. Rex and I would go there (not very often) for a practical reason - to trade for things (like food and clothing). Yes, we’d have a drink at the makeshift bar, and we’d talk to whichever folks passed by, or wanted to talk. But the trip to the warehouse was, mostly, something practical. It was a way to get necessary supplies.

In other words, we’d mostly been hanging out in our office for the past three months.

Just the two of us, hiding from the chaos, keeping each other company.

And then we met a Greyhound named Julia, and she had invited us to a party, and Rex had wanted to go. For the first time since I’d met him, Rex had expressed an interest in getting out, doing something just for fun, something that had the sole purpose of meeting other folks, of socializing with them.

So, we went. We found the place easily enough. However . . .

As the Tiger continued to talk, Rex and I stared at the former art gallery.

The two large windows (which had been boarded up at some point) had been blown all to bits. Pieces of boards and glass were scattered all over the sidewalk and the street. The door had been wrenched open, in some violent way. The fire the vandals had set had been quickly put out, but, the smell of things burning lingered in the air.

“They must have used explosives of some kind to blow up those windows,” the Tiger was saying. “And they did it from inside. See how the debris is out here? Hell of a mess. Hell of a shame, too.”

Thus, the irony.

We’d finally gone out somewhere, for fun, but there wasn’t going to be any fun here. The former art gallery had been completely trashed.

“Gods, what happened here?” Someone said, directly behind me.

It was the Greyhound, Julia. Her expression was guarded. She had the hood of her jacket up. It was late May, and the weather was giving hints of the summer to come. Still, Julia wore her bulky jacket with the many pockets.

“Hey, Julia,” the Tiger said. “Someone wrecked the shit out of the place. Used explosives, too. Look at the windows.”

“It was probably Insurgents,” someone else spoke up. “Probably Insurgents who joined a gang after their stupid group broke up.”

There were about a dozen anthros gathered in front of the bombed-out former art gallery. The Tiger turned and began a conversation with a Spaniel and a Boxer. The others began forming their own private conversations. Rex, Julia, and I were, suddenly, a trio.

“I’m glad you came,” Julia said. She glanced at me, but most of her attention was directed at Rex. “And I’m sorry this was how you found this place. It’s too bad. I liked almost everyone who came here.”

“I wonder why this happened,” Rex said. “Who did it, and why?”

“Nothing really makes sense anymore,” Julia said, with a sigh. “Right? Who knows why anyone does anything.”

I thought about the Insurgents who’d stayed in the city after the world fell apart. They’d had a purpose, in life, a mission. Not a good purpose, sure, but they had been single-mindedly focused on that purpose. However, after the Insurgency collapsed (much the same way everything else had), its members had lost their purpose. Many of those who’d remained in the city had joined gangs.

“Were these parties for anthros only?” I asked Julia.

“Oh, gods, no,” she replied. “They were about half and half, anthros and humans. Really, anyone could come, if they were chill. Why?”

“Just wondered,” I said, shrugging. “Was there anything here worth stealing? Was there any reason why someone would blow it up? If it was former Insurgents, I could see them blowing up a place where anthros gathered.”

Rex started to say something, then he stopped himself. Probably, he’d been about to say something regarding my time in the army - the time, in other words, I’d spent fighting the Insurgency. I don’t know why he stopped himself. Perhaps he didn’t want to say anything in front of Julia.

As for me, well - I had slipped, briefly, into old habits, hadn’t I? Into old patterns. Habits and patterns I’d picked up in the army. Faced with the mystery of why someone would blow up the former art gallery, I had immediately wondered if former Insurgents (now gang members) had done it.

The world was gone. The habits and patterns remained, of course, on a subconscious level.

“I don’t think there was a reason,” someone said, turning to face our little trio. It was a male Pit Bull, and he had a friendly look in his eyes. “It’s like Julia said, nothing makes sense. This didn’t have to be a gang, or anything like that. It coulda been, well, pretty much anyone.”

“Have we met?” Julia demanded, probably rattled by the other’s use of her name.

“Sorry, no,” the Pit Bull said. “But everyone who came here knew you, you know. I only came here for the first time last week. I overheard folks using your name. I - sorry - I didn’t think you’d mind.”

He moved forward, a bit, inserting himself between Rex and myself, and our trio became a quartet.

“Well, I don’t know your name,” Julia huffed, somewhat defensively.

“I’m Gunnar,” the Pit Bull said.

“Rex,” my Great Dane friend introduced himself. He held out a hand, and the Pit Bull shook it, warmly. “That’s kind of an unusual name - Gunnar.”

The Pit Bull shrugged.

“My parents said it was Dutch - or maybe Norwegian? I dunno. I think they made it up,” Gunnar said, smiling. “They’re like that.”

Gunnar stood a few inches shorter than me, and his body was somewhat stocky. His fur was light brown, but there was a patch of white on his neck which extended downward (how far it went was a mystery, hidden as it was by his t-shirt). Studying his face, I guessed he was in his early twenties, just as Rex and I were. His stance was casual and easy, and he seemed friendly enough.

I introduced myself, and I shook hands, briefly, with him.

“Cool theory you had,” he said. “About the Insurgents? I guess that would make sense, them going around smashing up places anthros go to. This place wasn’t like that, though.”

He looked at me, and I couldn’t read his expression.

It was easy, at that moment, to feel awkward - being the only human in the group of folks who were standing in front of the ruined art gallery.

Obviously, that awkwardness was due to the fact that I’d grown up in the North. If I’d been born in the city, I would have felt no such thing.

“Who cares about the why?” Julia snorted. “And who cares about the who? It doesn’t matter. It’s done. The real question is, what am I going to do tonight?” She looked at Rex, then at the smoldering remains of the art gallery. “Now that my plans for tonight have been ruined.”

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Gunnar, the Pit Bull we’d just met, cleared his throat.

“Anyone wanna go swimming?” he asked.