° ° °

Zed watched the press conference for #FireAndBrimStoneMountain, as it was now being called, from her computer. Apollo had told them they couldn’t ever discuss the past night via an electronic device, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t read about it. At the podium stood a freckled woman with exquisite eyebrows. She insisted that there wasn’t a story to follow. Zed chuckled as she dryly answered questions from the press, even the silly ones.

“Was this a terrorist attack?” a reporter asked.

“Perhaps,” the woman said.

“Is Atlanta safe?”

“Hopefully.”

“Was this an extraterrestrial event?”

“Absolutely.”

“As in aliens?”

“No.”

“Do you know what extraterrestrial means?”

“Yes.”

“Are Southern values under attack?”

“Cheap gas is the only Southern value.”

“Does the Stone Mountain incident have any relation to the fire off of Campbellton Road?”

The woman paused. “I am not aware of the fire to which you refer,” she belted out, robotically.

“Fuck, they already have leads,” Zed shrieked, slamming her laptop shut. This was the last thing she needed on a day she’d have to spend at home with her parents. They always knew when something was troubling her, and once they knew, they found out. Frantically, Zed paced around her room, seeking some sort of escape from her thoughts and her house. She decided to go see Apollo. Today would be the day she met his parents. She didn’t care whether he liked it or not.

Getting dressed was easier than she expected. She settled on flip-flops and a simple black smock, cute but not flashy. Her hair was trickier. Buns, her go-to hairdo, made her feel confident, but she didn’t want his parents to think she was controlling. His dad always sounded somewhat scared of assertive women. But he also sounded like an asshole. He could probably use a scare. Zed decided to go with buns. On her way out, she exchanged her flip-flops for her black combat boots. Confidence required an ensemble.

The walk to his house was refreshing. Driveways were empty and people were outside, unfazed by the events of the previous night. Zed was pleased. The empty lanes and parking lots being looped on Twitter were unsettling. Graffiti wasn’t supposed to scare people. It was supposed to show them that nothing was permanent, that small acts could alter the world. Zed didn’t know if the neighborhood really got it—after all, unlike her parents and Apollo’s parents, who were dentists, some people just couldn’t afford to miss work—but at least she knew she didn’t live in a neighborhood full of pussies.

Apollo’s dad answered the door. He was a squat man; his limbs hung close to his torso as if they were scared to grow further. “What?” he asked Zed.

“Hello, sir, I am Zadie. I’m here to see Apollo,” she answered politely.

“Cindy, Apollo’s playmate is here. Please deal with her,” he commanded, turning around and leaving the door ajar. Zed stepped into the foyer, her boots loudly echoing on the marble floor. The house had the same design as hers, but something felt off. The stairs seemed steeper, the windows seemed sealed shut. The walls were coated in a metallic black, making all instances of color look like tiny supernovae. Zed frowned at the image of her black smock in the mirror.