Death and Biker Gangs by S. P. Blackmore

Author:S. P. Blackmore [Blackmore, S. P.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B008YSRHLA
Published: 2012-08-16T04:00:00+00:00

***

“So who do you think Luca was?” I asked later that evening, watching Dax add salt and pepper to what still resembled tomato paste. He hadn’t suffered any ill effects from the chicken yet, and had placed four candles underneath the saucepan to heat up soup, noodles, and water. The two of us had managed to plow through two bags of stale croutons while he cooked. “Owner? Just a name?”

“Check it on Yelp?”

Willing to play along with the joke, I dug my cell phone out of one of my jacket pockets. I hadn’t tried plugging it in since we’d left, but I pushed the power button, half-hoping it had retained some sort of charge.

The black screen mocked me. I set it down on the table and propped my head in my hands. “I feel kind of like Viggo Mortensen in The Road, when he and his son found that cache of food and supplies.”

Dax poked at the paste. “I think they also found hot water and a decent stove, didn’t they?”

“They weren’t dealing with the undead. Just angry cannibals.”

“What about cannibals?” Tony thumped a carton down on the table next to me. “Are we embracing cannibalism fully? I found some more candles.”

“Yes, and you’re first on the menu.” I stretched a hand toward the bar. Dinner might be uninspired at best, but a good hard drink sounded divine. “So are we gonna talk about that?”

Tony’s grin stretched across his face. “I dunno, are we?”

“Red goes better with soup,” Dax said.

And that’s how three idiots who hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in weeks ended up with three bottles of the most expensive wine we could find.

The general Rules of the Post-Apocalyptic Wasteland suggest not getting howlingly drunk if you aren’t hiding out in a cement bunker or in some sort of crazy fortified treehouse. You certainly shouldn’t get tanked when there’s a damned assault rifle within an arm’s reach.

No one ever said we were smart.

After the first round, we quit pouring drinks and just started swigging straight from the bottles. Shoving the booze down my gullet dulled my memories of the day quite effectively...or, more accurately, it made it easier to focus on other things.

Two hours and two and a half wine bottles later, I pointed unsteadily at Dax, who had made a third unsuccessful attempt to down some anchovies we found in the pantry. “And you call yourself a Blood Nut.”

Tony reached over and grabbed the gagging Boy Scout by the arm. “Dude, you gotta tell us what the fuck was up with that name.”

Dax hiccupped. “It sounded badass.”

“Bro, it sounds like a venereal disease.” Tony reached for his wine bottle. Upon finding it empty, he grabbed Dax’s and poured a good amount of it down his throat. “Doc, help me, I’ve got the blood nuts.”

Dax weakly tried to snatch the bottle back, but ended up nearly falling out of his chair. “I think it was originally Bloody Nuts, because the whole band idea was bloody nuts…even though, you

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