Left fur deid.

The place was called Bam, if you could believe that. A small area in the Nimruz region of Afghanistan where, in 2007, a massacre of the local populace by U.S. contracted mercenaries was covered up, literally. 621 men women and children were executed and then buried in the ground by bulldozers, also contracted by the U.S. Military, who must have known they'd be needed.

The people of Bam were killed after they were given an experimental drug disguised as antibiotics. This was given because of a supposed outbreak of cholera. In fact it was an engineered influenza strain deliberately introduced to the people of the area by corporate interests with the sole reason of testing the experimental drug. What the drug was supposed to do was so classified that not even the Haz-Mat suited goons who injected the citizens of Bam knew what it did. Well, until they had administered the doses to the control group. What it did was cause a massive neurological shut-down in 100% of those injected. They became catatonic, vegetative, empty vessels which soon dwindled into death. The dust and sand covered their corpses for years. The bodies were defiled by insects and other lessen known denizens of those deserted places. The flattened land lay empty for less than two years before others moved in and turned the land into farms for opium poppies.

The opium derived from those poppies was smuggled out of Afghanistan by some of those very same mercenaries who put bullets into the men, women and children of Bam. Those mercenaries sold it to some shady individuals in contacts in Pakistan and were blissfully unconcerned that the people they sold it to had very close connections with the groups they'd spent the last several years at war with. Through an international network of Jihadists, naive idiots and hardened criminals it made it's way into Europe, Britain and eventually Glasgow, where Willie Boswell, known locally as “Weaselbaws” purchased three ounces of it off Malik, the guy that ran the AsiaWorld24/7 grocers at the top of his road.

“Weaselbaws” was not an individual to be trifled with, if he had not been born an urban peasant, he might have easily joined the ranks of those violent amoral mercenaries that rampaged across the aforementioned desert. Instead he was a dealer in a shitty, run down tenement flat of Glasgow's East End, where life expectancy was still less than in the war torn deserts of Afghanistan. Like every good salesman worth his salt, “Weaselbaws” lured potential buyers towards his product with tall tales.

“The ragheids call it Allah's nectar.” He lied. He really needn't have bothered, the two scrawny junkies had been sold with “aye I've got some” an hour previously. The dumb fuckers would have shot up chicken stock cubes but it was important to Boswell to weave his bullshit. “It's grown fae some sacred poppies than only grow wance a decade on the slopes of some Hill that wis said to be blessed by Mohammed. This stuff is the real fuckin' business. ”

The junkies, Des Curran and Daft Pete looked at the little packets in his hand like hungry dogs would a pork chop. As he moved them they moved their heads agreeing with anything and everything he said but not really listening, until that is he said “80 notes a gram.”

At that point, with a look of disappointment on his face like a child who'd sat on Santa's knee and felt an erection, Des said “Whit?”

“80 quid mate, that's the price, take it or leave it.”

“Big Skinny's sellin' for 50.”

“That prick? His stuff is maistly crushed tramadol. 80 quid a gram.” Boswell insisted.

Pete and Des looked at each other as if to confer but they knew they were buying it, the sickness was already beginning to sting their nerves and churn their stomachs. “Awright, but it hid better be good.”

“It's dynamite, trust me.” He smiled.

The two grudgingly handed over the cash and each stuck a gram bag in their pocket. Both knew you could never trust a dealer but then again who the fuck would trust a smackhead?

They were out of there as soon as courtesy allowed, which was about five minutes. As they walked through the frozen night, Pete snorted. “Allah's Nectar, can ye believe the shite he talks?”

Des shrugged, he was cold on the inside and out and everything was becoming just too real. “We should get a fast black man, I think I'm gonny pass oot.” He groaned.

Pete knew how he felt, it was a long way from Wellshot Road to the squat. Three wee pricks in track suits started shouting shit at them and Pete felt his hands curl round the screwdriver in his pocket. Des was right, they needed to get out of here quickly. They kept walking and were lucky to hail a cab coming round the corner at the Silver Dragon take-away.

By the time they got to the squat, Des looked like his taught grey skin might slough itself, leaving only bones behind. Pete untied the plastic bindings they'd used to hold the council fitted iron door in place and the two of them skulked into the dark, filthy, condemned building which had become home for the local rodents as well as them. The two flights of stairs were a struggle and when they finally got into their squat both collapsed on the torn red leather sofa. Both were drenched is a sickening sweat.

“Cook up will ye?” Des retched.

Pete was already on the case. “Oan it.”

Then there was only the frozen tingle followed by the warm numbing bliss of oblivion. “Allan's Hector” muttered Des as he crumpled into the overwhelming haze. The last thing he made out was Pete's mad laughter and he was washed away into the void of morphia.

It was a long time before the waves pushed him back to the sharp brutal shores of bitter reality. His consciousness was dulled and temporary, he noticed Pete's shape slumped on the floor and the sharp light of morning sun cut into his eyes. Like a fly struggling to escape from tree resin he pushed himself forward towards the clatty table and reached for the works, thinking another hit was in order. He gave a sly look at Pete, the fucker was still out of it, what he didn't know wouldn't harm him, besides he'd probably do the same when he came to. He cooked up, dug in again and slid back into that divine abyss.

When he came round for the second time he noticed Pete was still on the floor which would have been of no concern other than the blue tinge upon his lips. What adrenaline Des had saturated his system and washed away the afterglow of the drug. He was alert, panicking.

“Pete ya prick, wake up.” He demanded, shaking his bud with his foot. Pete did not wake up. His head lolled back and forth with the movement.

Des was off the couch and on the floor. He listened for breathing but could hear nothing, nor could he find any pulse from Pete's cold limp wrist. There was no pulse in the neck either, no heartbeat. “Aww fuck.”

He tried to thump start Pete's heart, to no avail and recognised from the blotches on the back of Pete's neck that he'd been dead for some time. “Aww fuuuuck!” Des exclaimed again.

His mind argued with itself, should he call an ambulance? Was there any point? He was already on probation, this would send him down. No one gave a fuck about Daft Pete anyway, he could just split. This seemed like a better option until he realised that there was still half a gram or so of Pete's stuff left. He picked up the bag, looked at the corpse and thought about shooting up again but doing so with a stiff lying there would be a bad scene. He decided the best thing to do was dump the body. Des -unlike the mercenaries who slaughtered the good people of Bam- had little experience with disposing of dead bodies but he still saw the opportunity to rob his fallen comrade.

Pete was not wealthy, very few people who used their trainers as safety deposit boxes were. Still, Des thought he might have a few bob stashed away somewhere. A fiver, some change, a screwdriver and a box of matches were all his pockets gave up. Des pulled off Pete's shoes and after letting the stink dissipate pulled up the soles. Two flattened and damp tenners were adhered to the bottom of each detached sole.

“Gaun yersel'” Des cheered.

He peeled the notes off and stuffed them in his pocket, did the same with the cheap plastic watch with the cheap plastic strap. It was only when having to get his fingers into Pete's pockets that he realised what it was he was doing. Some part of him was outraged by his actions but it was only a small part. He could feel the cooling body through the thin cloth and managed only to fish out a small key with a red fob and two pound coins. Hardly worth it. He threw the key on the table and pocketed the coins. He sat back on the sofa and looked at his dead comrade. They were never pals. Des couldn't have told you where Pete was from, if he had any family, what his dreams had been, what his favourite movies were. They were both drawn to each other by accident, a chance meeting at an unfamiliar dealer which lead to both of them discovering the squat. It was well out of town, condemned and awaiting demolition for almost a decade. They'd been good houses once and so Pete and Des crashed there, had done for three weeks. They bought smack and crashed and bought smack and crashed. In that time his conversations with Pete had been negligible.

This all made it easier for him to deal with the ugly, hollow crack that emitted from the back of Pete's head as Des dragged him by the feet down the stairs. It reminded him of the sound of a coconut he once dropped. Des realised that if he kept doing that, Pete's brains would spill out all over the filthy stairs. He was not going to even think about dealing with that disaster. He managed, with some elaborate difficulty to turn the body and pull it down the rest of the stairs by the shoulders.

The Tenements' inner communal area was centred by the midden, the remaining bins rusted iron and filled with rotten wood and chunks of concrete, from the failed, last ditch attempt to save the buildings. Des dragged Pete's corpse over nails, masonry and through muddy puddles. At the Midden he stopped and looked around. Night was beginning to fall. It was a cloudless evening. The sky, the colour of a bruise, was already filled with stars. The moon reflected on the shattered and broken windows made it look like one side of the building had some sharp and dangerous looking fangs and, above all, no one was around.

He pulled out three of the bins with great difficulty and then stuffed Daft Pete's body behind it. He covered the corpse in a large piece of deep green tarp, which was torn but would have to do. Des pushed the bins back into position and stepped back to see if Pete's body was suitably hidden. It seemed so. Des was pleased and decided to have a self-congratulatory cigarette. He lit it, inhaled and the hot smoke instantly irritated his throat. He coughed and then took a deep breathe and coughed again. This made it worse and soon he was coughing and hacking like someone who had snorted fibre-glass. His vision became filled with tiny stars. Each of them swam and flared as he hung onto the rotted green washing pole which was still standing, but at an angle. The coughing fit ceased but he found himself gasping and rasping for air. His weak pulse thrummed in his ears and then all of it stopped as he heard the clatter.

Des spun round. The three bins had been toppled over. There was no lump under the torn green tarp, No Pete.

“Pete?” Des said, dumbfounded. He lifted his head up to try and see over to the other side of the bins. He couldn't make anything out.

“Pete?” He said again, this time it was a whisper. This time his voice was less confident, afraid.

Des took a slow step into the middens when something that felt like a giant stapler punched through his coat and shoulder blade and whirled him round before he could yell. Yanked off his feet he was pulled like a rag-doll unsure of what was happening as he crumpled. It was then he saw the familiar face bear down on him. Pete had changed somehow, his grey face was empty of tension but his cracked yellow teeth were bared, and lunging. He finally managed to scream just before those teeth tore his throat out, taking his words, with it.

What had been Pete stopped, sniffed the air as if it sensed something and, after dropping Des' bleeding body, wandered off. Des vision faded to black as, in disbelief, he watched Pete's remains shamble off into the darkness, leaving him for dead.