sips from the bottle. He marched over to the edge, eyes narrowed in anger and frustration and residual fright. He took two more swallows, grimacing at the shots to his body as solid as any fists, and stared murderously at the still bright, indifferent husk that was Annapolis.
Today had been close.
Too goddamn close.
Replaying the events in his head, he swooned at the stupidity of his actions. A fucking bat! He had a spare one in the van, for Christ’s sake. The memory of being hit from behind by the runner gimp made him take another furious swig from the bottle. The Captain seemed to wink at him. Gus recalled the opening mouth of a zombie on his visor, so close he couldn’t focus on it. The force on his jacket. His jacket! He glanced down, spread apart the flaps where the zipper broke, and felt the vest that had kept the gimps out of his guts. He had never been swarmed before, never come so close to dying, so close to being ripped open.
So close to being eaten. Alive.
Gus screamed, a short powerful blast straight from the gut. With a bark of outrage and spent adrenalin, he flung the Captain out over the railing at the city. Rum fluttered in the sunlight like a lady’s dark handkerchief as it spilled from the bottle, then the bottle broke somewhere below. The soft tinkle of breaking glass served as a hypnotist’s bell, waking a subject from a deep sleep. Gus didn’t feel restful, however, so he plopped his ass down on the nearby lawn chair while holding his bald head in his trembling hands.
The rum did its work after a few minutes, charging into his brain and dousing his anxiety. He lay back on the chair, eyeing the city under bushy brows, waiting for it to make a move. It didn’t. Not even a sound. He palm-wiped his face and took a deep breath. He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t go on like that. He just couldn’t.
He stayed like that for a while, feeling the booze soak into his consciousness like a deep penetrating anesthesia. The sun fell and clawed the sky red. He relaxed, the alcohol calming him, making him forget the error of his day. Gnawing on his lower lip, he knew he would have to go back down there. Perhaps the sooner the better. No better way to face the mistakes than to get up and do it again. But not tonight. And not tomorrow. Tomorrow, he expected to be too hung over to move.
Hell, tomorrow he’d be surprised if he rose at all.
With that thought, he got to his feet and went to get a bottle of anything with alcohol in it.
*
Two days later, the hangover that had kept him glued to his sofa finally dissipated. Gus swore off all booze, but had a drink of rum and Coke by early afternoon, filling the glass half and half, trying hard to ignore how his hands shook as he poured. He shuffled through the house in warm pajamas, knowing he should be doing something, but not sure what. He finally decided to outfit the van again and get back up on the horse. There wasn’t much time before the snow came, and he used the thought of being cut off on the mountain for four months to get him moving.
Making his way to the garage, he consulted his mental list of what he needed and scratched off dildo. That made him smile.
Cold air embraced him as he opened the door to the garage and went around to the rear of the van. He opened the doors and pulled out the duffel bag full of the items picked up on the last trip. He looked back to see if he had everything and noticed a spray of holes in one side of the beast.
Gus’s jaw dropped.
Someone had shot at him.
He went around to the van’s side and ran a hand over the wide cluster of bullet holes. Obviously a shotgun blast, but who would want to fire on him? Someone in the house? Not possible, as he checked it from top to bottom. Someone in another house? That made sense, but why? It was one thing to have to worry about gimps, but to add a shooter to the mix made things worse. Who had he managed to piss off enough for them to take a shot at him? He stood back
Today had been close.
Too goddamn close.
Replaying the events in his head, he swooned at the stupidity of his actions. A fucking bat! He had a spare one in the van, for Christ’s sake. The memory of being hit from behind by the runner gimp made him take another furious swig from the bottle. The Captain seemed to wink at him. Gus recalled the opening mouth of a zombie on his visor, so close he couldn’t focus on it. The force on his jacket. His jacket! He glanced down, spread apart the flaps where the zipper broke, and felt the vest that had kept the gimps out of his guts. He had never been swarmed before, never come so close to dying, so close to being ripped open.
So close to being eaten. Alive.
Gus screamed, a short powerful blast straight from the gut. With a bark of outrage and spent adrenalin, he flung the Captain out over the railing at the city. Rum fluttered in the sunlight like a lady’s dark handkerchief as it spilled from the bottle, then the bottle broke somewhere below. The soft tinkle of breaking glass served as a hypnotist’s bell, waking a subject from a deep sleep. Gus didn’t feel restful, however, so he plopped his ass down on the nearby lawn chair while holding his bald head in his trembling hands.
The rum did its work after a few minutes, charging into his brain and dousing his anxiety. He lay back on the chair, eyeing the city under bushy brows, waiting for it to make a move. It didn’t. Not even a sound. He palm-wiped his face and took a deep breath. He couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t go on like that. He just couldn’t.
He stayed like that for a while, feeling the booze soak into his consciousness like a deep penetrating anesthesia. The sun fell and clawed the sky red. He relaxed, the alcohol calming him, making him forget the error of his day. Gnawing on his lower lip, he knew he would have to go back down there. Perhaps the sooner the better. No better way to face the mistakes than to get up and do it again. But not tonight. And not tomorrow. Tomorrow, he expected to be too hung over to move.
Hell, tomorrow he’d be surprised if he rose at all.
With that thought, he got to his feet and went to get a bottle of anything with alcohol in it.
*
Two days later, the hangover that had kept him glued to his sofa finally dissipated. Gus swore off all booze, but had a drink of rum and Coke by early afternoon, filling the glass half and half, trying hard to ignore how his hands shook as he poured. He shuffled through the house in warm pajamas, knowing he should be doing something, but not sure what. He finally decided to outfit the van again and get back up on the horse. There wasn’t much time before the snow came, and he used the thought of being cut off on the mountain for four months to get him moving.
Making his way to the garage, he consulted his mental list of what he needed and scratched off dildo. That made him smile.
Cold air embraced him as he opened the door to the garage and went around to the rear of the van. He opened the doors and pulled out the duffel bag full of the items picked up on the last trip. He looked back to see if he had everything and noticed a spray of holes in one side of the beast.
Gus’s jaw dropped.
Someone had shot at him.
He went around to the van’s side and ran a hand over the wide cluster of bullet holes. Obviously a shotgun blast, but who would want to fire on him? Someone in the house? Not possible, as he checked it from top to bottom. Someone in another house? That made sense, but why? It was one thing to have to worry about gimps, but to add a shooter to the mix made things worse. Who had he managed to piss off enough for them to take a shot at him? He stood back
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