Whiskey Delta – Chapter 18
“The bastards burst through my door and tried to tear into me. And I used this very gun to blow the c—suckers heads off! Not one showed up since…”
-Commemorative Plaque, Legion Bar
“One, two, three!” The glasses went up and the countdown began. So did the cheers, the incessant “drink! drink! drink!” from everyone at the table who wasn’t currently slamming a pint down their throat. Within seconds, Kobayashi came up victorious. The others, which at this point included Whitman and Cobb, took a few more seconds to finish or conceded, coughing up their remnants.
“Man! Every time!”
“Relax, Billy. He’s got a bit of an advantage,” said Mill.
“Hey!” Whitman protested. “Nobody’s got shit on me, I’m a fucking Whiskey Tango! Like y’all jeep saying!”
Dezba groaned and looked at the table. “Set em up again?”
Cobb pushed his glass away and waved his hands. After the last four, he’d had his fill, at least of what they’d been drinking at this point. Dezba had lost track after the last round of whiskey sours. Seemed a bit girly, but it had been Saunder’s turn to order. She insisted they’d thank her tomorrow for the injection of Vitamin C.
“Guess it’s just us,” Dezba said, indicating Kobayashi and Whitman. He waved to the server.
“I… think I’m good,” said the big man.
“Oh yeah, what about you, trailer park?”
Whitman took a deep breath and checked his pulse. “What the hell, I’m still good.”
“Alright, what the boy lacks in speed, he makes up for in longevity,” Saunders said, drawing every eye at the table towards her. ‘That didn’t come out right.”
“That’s what she said!” Cobb interjected. Everyone howled, saved Dezba.
“Jesus, shut up and let’s get some more drinks!”
The server arrived and Dezba placed an order for two more pints, shouting to be heard over the general din. She strained to hear but nodded eventually. Dezba took a look around and shook his head.
“Fucking plebes got no respect for grunts. You’d think they’d keep things down a bit. HEY, PEOPLE! SHUT UP ALREADY!”
Mill reached out and put his hand on Dezba’s shoulder. “Sarge, take er easy. We got no beef with these folks.”
“Fuckers take us from granted. Nobody thanked us, nobody got us pints. What the hell do they think, all this peace and safety is free?”
“Hell no, Sarge. Everybody knows what its costs to stay safe around here.”
“Not in my book. These folks are fat and lazy and just as soon forget about all of us.”
“Oh, yeah?” Mill said, firmly and pointed to the bar. “Then what’s that then?”
Dezba obliged and saw the ceremonial M9 hanging above it. Ol’ Grizzly had had it decorated and mounted with his old medals, five bullets sitting below, indicated the five Whiskeys he had killed with it. Dezba sighed and stowed the righteous mad he had been working on. Suddenly, the local folks didn’t seem so despicable. At the very least, he wasn’t about to disrespect anyone in Grizzly’s domain. The man was an old bear, and you never poked an old bear.
Groaning, Dezba got to his feet. “I gotta go drain the gizzard. Don’t nobody touch my drink while I’m gone.”
He left the grunts manning the table and headed to the mens room. Just about everyone got out of his way. Fear wasn’t the same as respect, but it’d do in a pinch. He had stoked himself up enough already, he didn’t need anybody stepping up and making things worse.
He was hit by the terrible smell of antiseptics and piss as soon as the door swung open. Sidling up to the urinal, he ripped his pants open and let er rip! Relief quickly followed, and a minor improvement in his mood. He knew he was just delaying the inevitable. He knew ever since they had been told by the Doc. Pounding drinks was just a way to numb it. Picking a fight was just a way to delay it.
He gave it a shake and took a deep breath. There was no more waiting to be had. It had to be done now, before they shipped out. Before anyone could find them…
Shoving the door open again, he head back to the table and caught sight of the grunts. They all looked the slightest bit wary as he made his approach over. A tall, cold glass of amber-colored lager was waiting for him. Whitman had already made a dent in his.
“Sarge, man! You gonna catch up or let this little redneck beat you?”
He eyed the pint. The cold emanations seemed to calm him, however temporary the effect might prove to be. He took the glass in hand and slammed it hard. When he opened his eyes, twelve eyes were staring at him through tempered glass. He slammed it down and quietly belched.
“I’m gonna go, I got something to take care of.”
“Whoa, Sarge!” said Mill, standing up beside him. “You okay to get home? Shuttle doesn’t take people off-base.”
“I know, bud. I’ll cab it. I just need to get home.” Mill nodded and sat down. He looked to the rest of the grunts. “I’ll see you bunch of miscreants at the base in two days. Now excuse me while I’ll sleep this off.”
“Goodnight, Sergeant!” they called, one after the other. More people moved out of his way as he headed for the door. It swung open into night, a cool gust of air hit his face.
* * *
The coup erupted in a burst as noise as soon as he stepped through the gate. Unused to nocturnal disturbances, their instincts must have been telling them this wasn’t going to go well. They were right. On an ordinary day, their eggs might have sufficed; but tonight was a special night.
Reaching into the coup, he struggled to get a hold of two unlucky necks. Not an easy job in his current state, but snapping their necks wasn’t any harder than usual. He slung the bodies over his shoulder as soon as they stopped flapping and marched into the house.
The back door took him into the kitchen, dropping the chickens on the table. A quick trip through the living room gave him access to the liquor cabinet, where he grabbed a bottle of ten year old whiskey. Seemed somehow appropriate. He put both sets of items down on the kitchen table and headed for the bedroom, looking for the final item for his manifest. Amanda hated that he kept it there, but he always said she slept better knowing that her man was armed.
The bullets lay beside the weapon. He picked up both and slapped the magazine in. SLiding it into his pocket, he head back to the kitchen and fetched the chickens and whiskey bottle. They were still warm to the touch, their hot blood still in an uncongealed state. That was important, so they were told…
“Ah, fuck me!” He eyed the lock on the basement door. His hands were full and he refused to put everything down again and turn on the lights and fiddle with the damn thing. He doubted he would even be able to find the key in his current state. Luckily, all the hootch in his system inspired another, simpler idea. Pitting only the whiskey down, he pulled the gun from his pocket and aimed at the lock. A few labored blows in slow succession managed to wrench the mechanism from the door’s frame and sent it clattering to the ground.Not the most elegant solution, but he doubted anyone in the area would hear.
He kicked the door open and began to descend…
Each footstep was a thunderclap. Heavy and drunken footfalls echoing trough his body. He could hear other sounds building too, the rising noise of gnashing and clawing. He drew in a deep breath, resisting the terrible stink as best he could. The noise grew louder the closer he came to the landing, and the motions began to appear in a small sliver of moonlight. By the time he hit bottom, he could make out more than he wanted to.
“Hello honey… hello baby…”
The gnawing was practically deafening, their voice filling the tiny, soundproof space. Gorey locks flashed in the light, the sight of white globes. Ordinarily, he would have recoiled. Not now. A strange calm was coming over him. The sight of them like this no longer seemed to bother him.
No fear, no lament.
He felt nothing.
Numb.
“Brought you both a snack.” He flung the chickens by their necks onto the floor. He flicked the top of the bottle off with his thumb and began taking a long haul. “Though you might appreciate a full meal.”
One set of terrible noises replaced the other. The din of them scraping against the floor and their restraints turned to the gnawing of flesh and snapping of bones. He let them devour, and sat down on the last step above the landing. He took another swig and watched them. The moonlight captured their little Iina, her own eyes caught in its glow. She paid him no heed, her attention focused entirely on her meal. Amanda was the same, any capacity to acknowledge him also gone.
They were reaching the end of their repast. He took a final swig and pushed himself to his feet. As expected, they went back to fighting their restraints once the last bite was down. Their hands and feet made a gory mess of the remains on the floor.
“Still hungry, huh?” he said, chuckling. He took one final swig. He could feel something hot and moist forming on his face. He finished the last of it and tossed the bottle aside, shattering it in the corner. He removed the pistol from his pocket.
“I’m sorry, baby,” he said, cocking it. “I couldn’t keep my promise. You’re going to a better place… both of you.”
The growled one last time. He made a note of their exact locations and closed his eyes.
The gun sounded twice, and then the noise was gone…
