Robert Mackenzie wrapped the make-shift scarf tighter around his face and neck and hurried down the alley. In front of the faded, worn sign of the Cock and Bull Pub, he glanced from side to side to make sure the coast was clear. He opened the heavy wooden door and sighed when a rush of warm air greeted him. “Close that fuckin’ door!” Someone from a nearby table shouted. “Aw, go fuck yourself,” he muttered, but pulled the door closed and kept walking. “Colder ‘n a witch’s tit in a brass brassiere.” Mad Dog, the bartender, nodded at him. “No shit.” Mac rubbed his hands together. Since the ozone layer had collapsed and the sun exploded into two smaller shells of its former self, warm weather was hard to come by. A nice summer day might see thirty degrees. Negative one hundred was common for a winter day in Chicago. “Summer’s coming. Couple months.”
