Apocalypse Atlanta (3 page)

* * * * *

The garage door rumbled up as Peter lifted it, protesting a little as he again reminded himself to get some oil on the rollers.  Blinking at the morning sunlight, he glanced around at the small back lot of his garage and nodded in satisfaction.  The landscaping company was keeping up their end of the bargain; keeping the grassy area neatly trimmed.

The previous owner had let it run nearly wild, which was one of the reasons, Peter suspected, he’d gone out of business.  Peter liked things neat, and he’d found a company that was willing to maintain it for free in exchange for his handling the routine maintenance on their trucks.  It was a good deal for both parties; Peter got to stay busy and didn’t have to fool around with the shop grounds.

“Not that I’m really in business myself.” Peter muttered with a grin, turning to look at the ’95 Ford Taurus waiting for him.  Nancy Killian was a very nice lady who had taken early retirement when the economy went south in 2008, and now lived very frugally on her 401K savings and teacher’s pension while she waited to be eligible for her non-reduced Social Security benefits to kick in.

It was only possible because she owned her own house, from the death of her husband five years ago and the subsequent life insurance payout, and the kindness of her neighbors and family.  Like Peter, who was more than happy to work on her car when it needed attention, so long as she was willing to help Amy out in the back garden and keep his wife company.

Which Nancy was, since she missed the interaction she was used to having at school, and lacked the funds to ‘go wild’ as Nancy termed it.  He suspected she rather regretted having to retire, and wondered again why she didn’t act on Amy’s suggestion; which had been to advertise as an assistant and lesson preparer for home schooling parents in Gwinnett.

Well, it wasn’t no problem of his.  If she wanted to watch daytime television and bitch about being bored sometimes, that was her lookout.  Humming tunelessly, Peter rolled his primary tool cabinet over to the Taurus, then walked to the lift controls and thumbed the proper button.  The hydraulic lift thrummed to life as it began rising, taking the sedan from ground level up where he could comfortably walk beneath it and get a good luck at the front end.

Nancy said it was ‘making a noise’ when she turned, which Peter suspected meant there was probably some grease needed and maybe a few loose things tightened.  If she were unlucky, it could be something in the hydraulics that handled the steering, but he hoped not for her sake.

When the Taurus was far enough off the ground, he released the lift controls and picked up his shop light.  Still humming, he clicked the light on and started checking the steering.  He’d barely gotten the first of the day’s grease on his hands when his phone vibrated.

“Damnit.” Peter muttered, tearing his gaze away from the left side of the steering and pulling the phone out of his pocket.  The display said ‘Home’.  He flipped it open with a grunted “Hey sweetie.”

“Peter, I forgot, we need milk and cold cuts.” Amy’s voice said, as the chattering hens that passed for morning talk show hosts murmured in the audio background behind her.

“Now?” Peter asked, wedging the phone against his shoulder as he studied the left side of the Taurus’ steering rack.  A couple of the bolts looked suspiciously loose, and he reached to start checking them.

“No, when you come home for lunch.”

“Alright, milk and cold cuts.  Ham okay?”

“Peter.” Amy’s voice replied with a stern undertone.

Peter rolled his eyes.  “A little ham never killed anyone.” he said mildly as he tested bolts with his fingers.

“Well the occasional wife has when her husband won’t follow the doctor’s orders to cut back on salt.”

“Honey–” Peter began, only to have Amy cut him off abruptly.

“Shush.  Low sodium turkey or chicken, and make sure you get it from the deli counter too.  You can stand in line for a minute or two if necessary to get something better than that garbage they package up and hang next to the baloney.”

“Yes dear.” Peter said in resignation.  He missed ham, along with bacon, potato chips, and a whole other host of foods Amy had banished from the house in recent years.  He missed them a lot.  It wasn’t that he didn’t agree with the health benefits of a better diet.  It was just that he wasn’t sure if longer life was worth living with all the fun stuff ripped out of it.

“Thank you.”

“Okay, bye.” Peter said, leaving her to hang up as he checked a last few bolts before he finally closed the phone and returned it to his pocket.  One of the nuts was a little bit loose, but not nearly enough to be a problem.  He pursed his lips as he considered what might be wrong with the Taurus.

Before he barely got his hands back into the steering the phone rang again.

“Sonofabitch.” Peter muttered, pulling it back out.  This time the display showed “LRS Range.”  He flipped the phone back open.  “I don’t want to hear it, you still owe me three beers.”

“Those last three shots were bullshit, I done already told you.” a man snapped back in a tone of considerably amusement.  “The bet was you make three out of five in the black.  You Peter, you.”

“I did make ‘em.” Peter grinned.

“The hell you did.”

“I pulled the trigger on each one.”

“Yeah, and Frank gave you corrections on two through five.”

Peter’s grin broadened.  “Yeah, and thanks to his expertise I put shots two, four and five right in the money zone.”

“That’s cheating, so they don’t count.”

“Bullshit, my gun, my scope, my finger on the trigger, my beers.”

“Why you gotta go and be like that?”

“Because you ran your mouth about how I was getting too old.”

“You are old Pete.”

“So are you Mike.” Peter chuckled.  “And I, unlike you, can still shoot.”

“What’re you gonna do if Frank ain’t around?”

“Reload more often.”

Mike laughed.  “Asshole.”

“Better than being a Ranger.”

“Oooooh, ouch.  Now play nice, jarhead.”

“What time are you going to be at the bar tonight?” Peter asked, glancing up at the car above him.  Jawboning with Mike was fun, but he had just enough of a start on the steering that he really wanted to figure out what the problem was.

“Oh probably around eight, maybe eight thirty.”

“I see.  Hoping I’ll have a few and forget you owe me three?”

“April 24
th
, 1989.” Mike said smugly.

“Now who’s fighting dirty?” Peter grinned.  “Listen, I got grease on my hands and a car on the rack so we’re gonna have to table this until tonight, okay?”

“Yeah, sure.  Just remember, you cheated.”

“You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“Yeah, but I play fair.”

Peter closed the phone without shooting another comeback at Mike, knowing from long prior experience this sort of back and forth could go on for quite a while.  He stuffed the phone back in his pocket, waited several seconds as if daring it to ring again, then reached up to the Taurus’ front end once more.

* * * * *

Darryl opened his eyes, then closed them again almost immediately in a hard wince.  His head was pounding, and the small amount of light filtering into the bedroom around the heavy black blanket draped over the curtain rod to block the window was more than enough to hurt his eyes.

He rolled over and reached blindly around on the floor until his fingers contacted what felt like yesterday’s jeans.  Removing the sunglasses from the case fastened to the belt, he fumbled them into place over his eyes, then squinted around the room cautiously.  Better.

A slight movement on the bed behind him reminded him of last night, and he glanced over to see Bethany – sorry Elizabeth – snuggling up against the pillows as she slept.  The blankets had fallen off her chest in the night, and Darryl paused to admire the view before his head throbbed again.  She had really nice breasts.

Rolling out of the bed, he stumbled naked for the bedroom door, down the hallway beyond, and into the kitchen.  The fridge door opened at his heavy tug, and he grabbed a can of Natural Light out of the cardboard case sitting on the top shelf where most people kept milk or pitchers of tea or juice.

The can fizz-hissed as he popped the tab, and he tipped his head back as he began downing the beer as rapidly as possible.  When the last bit gurgled out of the can, he threw it in the sink and belched gratefully.  Grabbing another can, he wandered back down the hall and into the bedroom with it.

Bethany was still sprawled on the bed, though she had rolled over into the space he had vacated.  She was even more on display than before, and he paused again to admire the view.  That reminded him of the pressure building in his bladder, and he stepped into the bathroom to relieve it.

As he pissed, he could feel the alcohol in the first beer starting to enter his bloodstream, abating the hangover induced headache.  Shaking himself off, he hit the lever to flush, then grabbed the second beer off the bathroom counter and went back into the bedroom with it.  When he popped the top, Bethany jerked upright, and turned her head to him.

“Hey girlie.” Darryl said, making sure to flex his upper body as he lifted the can for a drink.  “How you feeling?”  He had the easy unconcern with his nudity of any confident man who worked out and knew he looked good.  Bethany had really liked hanging onto his biceps while they’d fucked last night.  With any luck she’d be in the mood for a morning romp, which would suit him just fine.

Bethany didn’t respond, but just stared at him.  Darryl lowered the can after a moment, looking at her curiously.  “You alright?” he asked again.

The stripper started trying to get out of the bed, moving clumsily.  She seemed to be having trouble getting her legs untangled from the blanket.  Darryl watched for a moment, then sighed.  Just his luck, the new girl was a meth head or something.  Completely unable to function without her fix.

He wished, again, Aaron would start drug testing the new strippers before he hired them.  But Darryl knew what the club’s manager would say; it was a waste of money, and it didn’t matter how coked up they were so long as they got naked and separated the men from their money.  The club thrived on the girls to bring the guys in, and enjoyed a healthy rake off of the girls’ tips and fees to boot.

“Want some help?” Darryl asked as she managed to get to his side of the bed, struggling across the mattress as if it were a great effort.  Bethany was still looking at him, like her eyes were on a rope connected to him.  Her flailing hands stretched out to plant on the bed as she tried to drag herself forward.  One of the hands missed the bed entirely, and she toppled forward in a tangle of limbs and blanket with a heavy thump as she hit the floor.

“Shit!” Darryl blurted, setting his beer on the dresser and taking the two steps necessary to lean down over her.  “Take it easy, I’ll get you back to your place and you can fix, okay?”  He reached and grabbed her under the arms, hoisting her to her feet with ease.

When he touched her, her head started swiveling around to look at him once more.  As he lifted, she stared at him blankly.  The first thing that struck him was her eyes, which had been lively and expressive, sexy, last night.  Now they fixed on him without wavering, wide and unblinking.  She looked . . . well dead.  She looked dead.

“You should keep some on you if it’s that bad.” Darryl said as he got her to her feet, the blanket sliding down to pool around her ankles.  She had a good body for a meth head, Darryl thought admiringly, though he knew it wouldn’t last.  It never did once you started fixing.

That’s why he stuck to beer and booze, all that did was pack on extra pounds, which could be dealt with easily enough if you remembered to hit the gym.  And that was never a problem for him, especially considering how much the girls liked it.  Plus it made his job easier, which was just bonus atop bonus as far as he was concerned.

He was still thinking about how long her looks would last when her hands suddenly closed around his upper arms with surprising strength, gripping his biceps hard enough to make him wince from the pressure.  Far harder than her slight form seemed capable of doing.

“Hey!” he blurted, stepping back and shoving at her.  She’d not squeezed him that hard last night, not even when she was in the middle of orgasming, and it hurt.  She lost her grip on his left arm, but the right stayed clamped on, and her mouth opened as she leaned closer to him.

“You trying to bite me!” Darryl said incredulously, putting his free hand on her forehead.  Then he grunted and pushed harder, as he felt the effort she was exerting trying to lean closer to him.  Her mouth opened and closed like she was gnawing on something, and she was exerting a lot of pressure against his hand as she strained to lean forward.

Darryl jolted his shocked mind into gear, and twisted his arm as he yanked.  It slipped free of her fingers, the fingers making grabbing motions as he got loose of her.  Darryl shoved her, hard, and Bethany toppled over onto the bed.  He flexed his forearm, where he could see the marks her fingers had left in his skin.  “What’s the problem, girlie?” he said angrily.  “You came back here last night, I didn’t drag you.  And you weren’t drunk when you came neither.”