Life beyond perimeter

“Wake up-wake up now-wake up!”
Wicked’s screaming through her teeth, eyes still bulging now watering from too much air. The girls find themselves still sitting in the ancient house atop the broken roof. Graphic’s snoring, drooling and reacting rather positively to being shook.
“Fuck,” she groans through closed mouth.
She knew better and now she feels stupid. As she sulks down onto the floor rubble dust covering the top of her hat, and everything else, she resigns herself. The sounds outside begin to sound like music, the force of the wind almost surreal. This certainly isn’t Liberation Land. This place feels almost wild, the burning air, the bellowing winds even the colors were alive. Yet, dead.
Wicked doesn’t dare move. Simply breathes deep. She can hear music inside, she’s playing it for herself hoping to slow the rapid pace of her heart. In and out. Deep breath-in and out. Over and over again she does this until her eyes close. No thoughts, just breathing, calm rhythmic breathing. She’s almost back in school behind the curtain, the calm right before the rush.
The door handle turns. The sound slow and jarring her whole body goes stiff-it’s locked. Now holding her breath she bites her lower lip, they jostle the knob then stop. For a moment everything’s quiet almost as if the person is gone, they aren’t. The jostling begins again this time more methodical-picking the lock!
She sucks in air hard as a hand falls on her shoulder she screams the sound immediately muffled. Eyes wide she turns-it’s Graphic. Of course. She’s all smiles as the lock clicks. They got it.
The door knob turns slowly our girls just watch as it opens and a man steps in. He doesn’t notice them, not at first, not as he closes the door, but when he turns back around the room is green. Wicked can’t contain it, she’s glowing.
“What the fuck-”
“HI!” Graphic exclaims happily eyes round. New faces can do that to a girl.
He pulls his gun as she moves towards him.
“He-hey don’t move!“
She tilts her head, looking confused and a bit sad.
“What the fuck is with the green.. Is-is she irradiated?“
Perking up, “No, no-well maybe I really don’t know, but you’re safe… sorta,” she looks down at Wicked who just sits, stunned.
She’s tired, just fucking tired. All she wanted was a normal day. A. Normal. Fucking. Day. But no, of course not.
“Wicked?” Graphic pokes her, “Wiiiiicked,” and then again.
Before a third time, “It probably isn’t good,” she sighs shaking herself awake, “Put down the gun, and I’ll tr-”
Interrupting, Graphic presses her cheek against Wicked’s her eyes flashing that toxic green.
“Rogue time bitches!” the glow transfers between the two women and then dies.
Wicked pushes her off.
“I told you never to do that!“ rage replaces the green only to be interrupted.
“Alright, that was pretty cool,” the man drops his gun, “I’m Sam, and let me just say I never thought I’d be lucky enough to meet a pair of friendly mutations!”

Sweet dreams are made of

We once again find ourselves falling. Crashing, really. Graphic and Wicked collide with a roof and then with a couch though with roof under them it really doesn’t matter.
They’re surrounded by the old world, the old, old world. Picture frames still hang on the walls, trinkets lay out on tables, and a fireplace sits before them with a radio on it’s mantel. The girls don’t see this. They don’t see anything at all. Graphic sleeps, deep and hungry. Wicked’s waking up, but she can already tell-they’re no longer in Kansas. She finally understands what that means.
Eyes still closed she reaches for Graphic, “Dude… you alive?” smelling the air: it’s entirely foreign. It almost burns her nostrils and then she remembers.
“We-we went over-we went over!” eyes burst open, “Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-wake up!” pulling rubble off her slumbering friend she feels the burn of untempered sun, she’s panicking.
Her skin’s growing greener the previous expulsion long gone, it’s effects rendered useless. Grabbing Graphic by the shoulders she shakes her violently.
“Wake up-wake up!“ she tries to keep quiet afraid of what could be around.
Graphic doesn’t stir only mumbles and drools. Wicked’s eyes bulge, her heart’s pounding while breathing in the heavy acid air. The freshness is killer. She looks around, it’s just a normal house. A normal centuries old house. A dead person’s house, a long, dead, person’s house. She prefers the sewers. As she looks at the dusty walls all the pictures blank destroyed over time-all the colors faded, hey mouth goes dry.
“Graphic get up-please-please wake up you bitch! You have to get us out of here!”
They should be dead-completely, and utterly dead. Wicked bought the warning: hook, line, and sinker. They’re in the dead zone and her only way home is dreaming of fried chicken.