So I went back to feeling like a good person. Then came the Outbreak, and Canyon Lake, and that crazy perverted bastard who thought screwing a ghoul was a good idea, and again I chose to pull the trigger. It was easier the second time, and the third, and the fourth, and all the deaths thereafter.
That’s the thing about crossing lines. It is only hard the first time. After that, it gets easier and easier until eventually you forget there was ever a line to begin with.
At the bottom of the mountain, we unrolled Briggs from a big blue tarp and left him in the open. His body was still warm, the blood not yet coagulated. Tyrel drew his pistol and fired a single round in the air.
“Won’t be long,” he said. “We need to move.”
I heard moans and hisses cut the air less than two-hundred yards away. We got in the wagon, Tyrel snapped the reins, and we took off at a brisk trot.
The infected would make it easy for us. They would dispose of the body neatly and effectively, leaving nothing to tie us to the dead man on the road. Disposing of bodies was one of the few things the undead were useful for.
I wished then, and still do now, that the infected could eat more than just flesh. I wish they could eat our demons. If people could reach into themselves and pull out their regrets, and anger, and the suffered indignities of the past, and feed them to the undead, those of us still alive might have a higher opinion of the pathetic creatures.
And the ghouls would be very, very well fed.
SIXTY-FOUR
There are two methods of being an effective drunkard in the new barter economy. Both depend on what commodity you are exchanging.
In my case, I had in storage a significant amount of the two principle types of trade goods: large items, and what I call divideables. The big stuff consisted of things like guns, furniture, generators, propane grills, propane tanks, mattresses, horses, cows—things that, generally speaking, cannot be easily broken down into smaller component parts. Well … except the horses and cows, of course. But hardly anyone butchers those kinds of animals unless they are desperately hungry. Draft animals are simply too useful for general consumption unless they are injured or too old to work. Then they are fair game. Especially cows.
Divideables are the opposite: cans of instant coffee, bags of sugar, boxes of ammunition, toilet paper, food, tampons, toothbrushes, etcetera. These are easy to trade, as just about anyone will accept a plastic bag filled with coffee, a few sugar packets, a handful of ammunition, or a couple of yards of toilet paper in exchange for a drink. You can even trade high-quality pre-Outbreak booze for large quantities of the poorly made, but very effective, post-Outbreak stuff. Sure, it might destroy your liver and make you go blind, but when the goal is to drink yourself to death a la Nicolas Cage in Leaving Las Vegas, what difference does it make?
Which brings me back to the topic at hand: the two methods of being an effective drunk.
You see, large trade items, while valuable, are generally exchanged for other large items. So to keep yourself in booze, you trade the big stuff for commodities you can divide up. Venison jerky, for example. This is the first method of practical drunkery.
The second is to find an establishment that will let you buy drinks on credit, keep an honest ledger, and accept large trade items as down payments against future alcoholism. This method may seem like a good idea in theory, but in practice, it is difficult to pull off. The problem is finding an honest businessman.
Lucky for me, I knew one. His name was William. I have no idea what his last name was, as he never gave one, and I’m fairly certain William was not his real first name. I did not care. He ran an honest business, kept his books with thorough precision, and offered fair value for trade.
And that is as much as I remember from that period of my life.
My next clear memory is of waking up in a jail cell feeling like I had just been run over by a truck made of hatred and knives. I tried to sit up on my cot, but my ribs screamed at me and demanded I lay back down. I complied.
Lying there, I decided that someone needed to come up with a stronger word for hangovers. The hangovers I woke up to, especially that morning, were much too powerful for the common definition to suffice. They should be called death-overs, or annihilation-overs, or I-just-got-eaten-and-shit-out-by-a-tyrannosaurus-overs, or something.
Turning my head, I thought something was wrong with my vision, but then I raised a hand to my face and understood the problem—one of my eyes was swollen shut. The rest of my mug was not in much better shape.
Then came the headache, the nausea, the shakes, the clenched bowels, and the thump, thump, thump of my pounding heart. The usual suspects.
Worse, there was always a delay after I woke up, just long enough to make me feel like I had become inured to the abuse I was heaping upon my body. But then the package would arrive and detonate on my proverbial doorstep, and I would be reduced to a moaning ball of agony. Most mornings, the best I could do was crawl to the nearest bottle and pour it down my throat and wait for the symptoms to abate. Repeat as necessary.
There were no windows in the cell, so I had no idea what time it was. I also had no idea why I was in my own cell and not in the tank with the rest of the drunks. Whatever the reason, I had a feeling I was not going to like it.
I searched my hazy memory, trying to remember what happened to me the night before, but mostly drew a blank. I remembered waking up in my own bed the previous morning—a rare occurrence in those days—having my first five or six drinks, and then stumbling down the street to The Amber House, the establishment ran by William No-Last-Name, owner and proprietor. But that was all. Meaning I had, as usual, blacked out.
Not for the first time, I wondered at the fact I was still alive.
An agonizing eternity passed, which was probably not more than an hour, and then a voice spoke to me through the bars of my cell.
“You awake in there?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” I croaked. Christ my throat is dry.
“Then get up, Caleb.”
Jeez, I’ve been here enough times I’m on a first name basis? I turned my head to see a uniformed sheriff’s deputy standing at the door. I did not recognize him.
“I’m not sure if I can, officer.”
A shake of the head. He looked both ways down the corridor to make sure no one was coming, then unlocked my cell and stepped inside. From his jacket pocket, he produced a small flask. “Here. This’ll help get you moving.”
“God bless you, you beautiful man.”
It was grog, but did not taste half bad. The deputy helped me sit up far enough I would not choke on it. I took two long pulls and felt the old familiar burn in my stomach, a delightful comfort only those who have endured severe alcohol addiction can fully appreciate.
“Thanks,” I said, sitting up the rest of the way. “I think I can move now.”
“Good. The judge wants to see you right away.”
I looked at the deputy, and the expression on his face was not a happy one. “Oh shit,” I said. “What did I do?”
“You don’t remember?”
I shook my aching head.
“Don’t worry. You’ll find out soon enough.”
*****
The Honorable Judge Jack MacGregor was not what I was expecting.
When you hear a name like Jack MacGregor you think of a stern old Irishman with silver hair, eyes the color of the sea, and a South Boston accent. But that was not what I saw when I stepped into the large office that served as one of the building’s courtrooms.