WHISKEY BENT and HELLBOUND- the Ranger and the Runaway Tales- Book Two

Chapter 1

DEAD AND GONE

CHURCH'S CHICKEN

RT. 59

NORTH OF HOUSTON, TEXAS

April 2, 1985

I downed the biggest swig of whiskey I believed I ever had. And that's saying a hell of a lot. The liquid burned my throat, and I welcomed the spreading warmth as it hit my stomach. It tasted good, damn good. It helped to numb the throbbing gunshot wound in my arm the other various cuts and bruises of the past month. The liquid gold always offered my comfort and soothed the demons. It was almost just as soothing as the darkness of the shit-hole bathroom I'd sequestered myself in.

My hat hung over my knee as I sat slumped on the closed toilet. Not the most dignified place to get pie-eyed, but lord knows it wasn't the worse place I bent an elbow. You take what you can when the end of the damn world kicks open the door and burns the world and your goddamn life to cinders.

I wiped tears from my eyes on my sleeve and took another sip. The drive from our house was something out of a fucking nightmare. I shivered as a cold breeze whipped through the small room. The rain had gotten worse the further we'd driven north. The streets grew more and more congested with wrecked cars and those... those things. Stacy Jo called them zombies, but I wasn't buying any of that bullshit. Truth be told, I really couldn't give to shits. You could call them goddamn aliens from Mars and it still wouldn't change I'd lost my girl... the love of my life. My fucking anchor. Now, what?

Another sip of whiskey did little to help, but I continued to drink.

I wanted to wash it all away. Every damn bit of it.

The cold metal of my pistol felt like an old friend in my hand. My non-bottle hand, of course, and both, offered me an escape hatch from this hell. Nothing made a lick of sense. Days ago I had to shoot my---my Inez. That goddamn banger—Isandro, killed her the first time.

"Baby, I'm so, so, so sorry." The sound of my shaking voice scared me. My weak words echoed off the cold stall walls quickly washed away by pounding thunder and violent crashing of lightning. More tears rained down, and I let them.

I drained the rest of the bottle and laughed as it hit my blood and mud-crusted boots and rolled loudly across the floor.

The storms raged on the outside while I sat in my own, muck and mire of misery and embraced the thick web of it. Like a wave, my body shook violently and my muscles seized with grief, rage, and regret wrapped nicely inside a whiskey-fueled grip of guilt.

Darkness had been calling me for my entire sorry life and I was finally about fixin' to answer.

I held the 45. to my head; the coolness of the barrel felt good against my temple. My hand trembled but my resolve grew steady.

I was tired of all this shit and was fixing to end it all. I was damn ready.

Every inch of my body ached and burned with fatigue. I felt like I weighed five hundred pounds and gravity pulling me down deeper and deeper into that darkness. It was a struggle to move. I was damn ready.

The dead things outside seems to encourage me—with their never-ending monotone, calls for flesh and whatever the hell the Child of Light was. Their unrelenting moans filled my already spent brain with a boatload ton of crazy bullshit. I was at my end. Not thinking right. Yeah... yeah, Baby Bellia needed me, but what the fuck chance did she have in this insane world of zombies and whatever else was out there in the storm?

Blocking out the incessant cries, I moved the gun's barrel into my mouth took a long breath.

"Go to Hell, God, Fuck you!" I mumbled.

I looked out the rain-covered window at the flashing lightning and heard the Dodge's engine rumbling in the parking lot. Bellia had the teen, Stacy Jo to take care of her. She'd be in good hands. Hell, at least sober ones.

As I let out my breath, I softly said, "I love you."

A sudden pounding at the door almost caused me to drop the pistol. "Hey, old man, you almost done? Pinch it off, 'cause the natives are getting restless out here." Stacy Jo's voice sounded thin and hollow through the thick metal door and was the last thing I wanted to hear. The burning cries of baby Bellia came a close second.

Through a sea of tears and gripping sobs, I managed, "Ah for Christ's sake...yeah, yeah, I'll be right out." I knew the words sounded like a wounded deer bleating for a sympathetic bullet, but I pretty knew I was out of luck.

I put the battered Stetson on my head, stood up, my knees creaked and popped. Holstering my service weapon, I stared at my haggard reflection in the dusty mirror and grabbed a handful of paper towels and turned on the faucet; it spat and sputtered and let out a hiss. Nothing.

"Figures," I mumbled, wiped my face with the towels and tossed them in the dry sink. Looking back at the darkness of the cold stall, I left the ghosts of the bathroom behind me, but the demons I knew would tag along. There was no denying that, the bullet and me, would dance again.