Goddamn it, I needed a cigarette. Chewing tobacco. Anything to take the goddamn edge off.
Prying my hands from the steering wheel, I reached across the cab and popped my glove box open, pulling free a flask that had once belonged to my uncle. I whipped off the cap and took a long, hard swig of honest-to-God whiskey that dated back to before the world had ended. I kept it there, bringing it out only when I really needed a taste of the good stuff.
Only this time, the moment the familiar flavor exploded in my mouth, instead of satiating my need for oblivion, it flooded me with memories. The sound of my uncle’s laughter, his voice hoarse, raspy from too many years of smoking two packs a day, the sound of hard rock booming from inside the garage while the two of us worked on cars. The feel of his hand on my shoulder, squeezing lightly just before he took his last breath.
I was truly fucking losing it. Gritting my teeth, I closed my eyes and took another swig of whiskey, hoping to drink away the past, but only succeeded in allowing more images from a life long gone to rise to the surface.
Red hair and blue eyes.
Dimples.
Laughter.
Hair matted with blood, eyes clouded with disease.
Sunken-in cheeks.
Snarling growls.
My stomach clenched painfully, my face twisting with discomfort as I sank even further into my memories, feeling all the pain that came with them, every bit as sharp and as cutting as ...
Instantly, the familiar rage was back, manifesting itself as a dangerous hum inside my blood, causing it to boil and burn as it pumped through my body. Locking my jaw, I sat rigid in my seat, glaring down at the flask in my hand.
It was better this way. The anger took hold of me, swallowed me whole, and made it possible for me to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Focus, I told myself.Fucking focus.
The voice inside me only laughed.
Furious at myself, I screwed the cap back on the flask, then tossed it inside the glove box and slammed it closed. When I looked up, I focused again on the house in front of me, on the men filtering out of it, their arms full of pilfered goods.
Feeling entirely not right and pretty damn sure I was losing my mind, I pushed open the door of the truck and grabbed an armful of supplies from the nearest man. After tossing the finds into the bed of my truck, I spun around and marched back toward the house for more.
Reminiscences were for the weak. Dwelling on the shit you couldn’t change was a waste of time and a good way to get yourself killed.
I wasn’t weak and I didn’t dwell; I did what had to be done. I stayed focused on tomorrow, and on ensuring that I would live to see it by whatever means necessary, damning to hell whatever got in my way.
Whatever helps you sleep at night, the voice in my head sang, mocking me.
• • •
I didn’t sleep that night. Like most nights, I ended up tossing and turning, falling in and out of my usual stream of nightmares until morning brazenly seeped into my home. I cracked open one bleary eye and then the other, glaring at the obnoxious sunlight streaming through the torn and battered blankets I’d nailed to the wall in lieu of curtains.
“Fuck you,” I muttered, and turned my face into the mattress. I’d never been a heavy sleeper, but since the end of the world my insomnia had only worsened. At the tiniest noise, I was up and out of bed, weapons blazing.
Good for survival. Bad for my sanity.
For five more minutes, I attempted to sleep before rolling off the mattress and getting to my feet. Still in the same clothing as yesterday, including my boots, I only had to strap on my weapons and grab a quick drink of water from my supply. Then I was out the door, headed toward the makeshift garage at the far end of the compound, my home away from home.
My truck had been running a little noisy yesterday, probably because it hadn’t been used in so long, so I’d sent it in for maintenance. Much like food and water, having a working vehicle was a necessity, more so when that vehicle was built especially for surviving in today’s perilous living conditions.
Ten minutes of walking through thick brush and I reached my destination. At the garage, a slouchy and squat structure in even worse condition than my own housing, I pulled back the tarpaulin that was the door and stepped inside.
Oil and grease greeted me, their sharp, pungent odors infiltrating my nostrils as I inhaled deeply. I’d always liked the smell of a working garage, feeling far more at home around metal scraps and engine bits than I ever did around people.
Two trucks were parked inside the small building, mine and another without tires, both of them on lifts. A pair of work boots peeked out from beneath my truck, and as I made my way toward them, the body attached slid out from beneath the underbelly of my truck.
Ademar, better known to the people of Purgatory as Adam, sat up on his creeper cart and gave me a mock salute. Grease was smeared across both his cheeks, making his dusky skin appear even darker. The sight reminded me of the dirty, scrawny, half-starved young man he’d been when he found us here.
