Gone Girl

war zone.
    ‘Better you come to us than we come to you!’ Mikey called. ‘Oh, hell o!’ In the entryway to a pet shop, a man and woman huddled on a few army blankets, their hair wet with sweat. Mikey loomed over them, breathing heavily, wiping his brow. It was the scene in the war movie when the frustrated soldiers come across innocent villagers and bad things happen.
    ‘The fuck you want?’ the man on the floor asked. He was emaciated, his face so thin and drawn it looked like it was melting. His hair was tangled to his shoulders, his eyes mournful and upturned: a despoiled Jesus. The woman was in better shape, with clean, plump arms and legs, her lank hair oily but brushed.
    ‘You a Blue Book Boy?’ Stucks asked.
    ‘Ain’t no boy, anyhow,’ the man muttered, folding his arms.
    ‘Have some fucking respect,’ the woman snapped. Then she looked like she might cry. She turned away from us, pretending to look at something in the distance. ‘I’m sick of no one having no respect .’
    ‘We asked you a question, buddy,’ Mikey said, moving closer to the guy, kicking the sole of his foot.
    ‘I ain’t Blue Book,’ the man said. ‘Just down on my luck.’
    ‘Bullshit.’
    ‘Lots of different people here, not just Blue Books. But if that’s who you’re looking for …’
    ‘Go on, go on, then, and find them,’ the woman said, her mouth turning down. ‘Go bother them.’
    ‘They deal down in the Hole,’ the man said. When we looked blank, he pointed. ‘The Mervyns, far end, past where the carousel used to be.’
    ‘And fuck you very much,’ the woman muttered.
    A crop-circle stain marked where the carousel once was. Amy and I had taken a ride just before the mall shut down. Two grown-ups, side by side on levitating bunny rabbits, because my wife wanted to see the mall where I spent so much of my childhood. Wanted to hear my stories. It wasn’t all bad with us.
    The barrier gate to the Mervyns had been busted through, so the store was open as wide and welcoming as the morning of a Presidents’ Day sale. Inside, the place was cleared out except for the islands that once held cash registers and now held about a dozen people in various states of drug highs, under signs that read Jewelry and Beauty and Bedding . They were illuminated by gas camping lamps that flickered like tiki torches. A few guys barely opened aneye as we passed, others were out cold. In a far corner, two kids not long out of their teens were manically reciting the Gettysburg Address. Now we are engaged in a great civil war … One man sprawled out on the rug in immaculate jean shorts and white tennis shoes, like he was on the way to his kid’s T-ball game. Rand stared at him as if he might know the guy.
    Carthage had a bigger drug epidemic than I ever knew: The cops had been here just yesterday, and already the druggies had resettled, like determined flies. As we made our way through the piles of humans, an obese woman shushed up to us on an electric scooter. Her face was pimply and wet with sweat, her teeth catlike.
    ‘You buying or leaving, because this ain’t a show-and-tell,’ she said.
    Stucks shone a flashlight on her face.
    ‘Get that fucking thing off me.’ He did.
    ‘I’m looking for my wife,’ I began. ‘Amy Dunne. She’s been missing since Thursday.’
    ‘She’ll show up. She’ll wake up, drag herself home.’
    ‘We’re not worried about drugs,’ I said, ‘we’re more concerned about some of the men here. We’ve heard rumors.’
    ‘It’s okay, Melanie,’ a voice called. At the edge of the juniors section, a rangy man leaned against a naked mannequin torso, watching us, a sideways grin on his face.
    Melanie shrugged, bored, annoyed, and motored away.
    The man kept his eyes on us but called toward the back of the juniors section, where four sets of feet poked out from the dressing rooms, men camped out in their individual cubicles.
    ‘Hey, Lonnie! Hey, all! The assholes are back. Five of ’em,’ the man said. He kicked an empty beer can toward us. Behind him, three sets of feet began moving, men pulling themselves up. One set remained still, their owner asleep or passed out.
    ‘Yeah, fuckos, we’re back,’ Mikey Hillsam said. He held his bat like a pool cue and punched the mannequin torso between the breasts. She tottered toward the ground, the Blue Book guy removing his arm gracefully as she fell, as if it were all part of a rehearsed act. ‘We want some information on a missing