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Authors: Armand Rosamilia
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in her mouth while another girl fondled her from behind. The third woman was servicing herself with an empty wine bottle.
David had a mission here, and this wouldn't deter him. He couldn't open his mouth and form words, though, right now.
Steve pointed at the woman taking care of herself. "Hey, Danny, see if she needs a hand."
"David. My name is David. I need this bus moved."
"Not a problem," Steve said and put a hand on the back of his oral partner's head. "Can I finish here first?"
"I'm not kidding," David said.
“Neither am I." Steve laughed. "Are you going to just stand there and stare or jump into the fire?"
David turned away and stomped back down the hall.
Mike was sitting at the small table, trying in vain to light a wet cigarette.
"You need to move this tour bus," David said.
Mike grinned. "Is that what this is about?"
"I specifically told you—"
"No, you told Steve, who in turn, lied to me to get us to park here."
"I don't care who's to blame," David said.
"We were planning on moving in the next half hour. Once we grew bored with those three chicks."
"I don't believe you."
Mike smiled when the cigarette sparked. "Seriously, man. We had a nice day here, hanging with the refugees. I cooked over a hundred hot dogs and traded them for alcohol, even though we have enough to kill a person ten times over." Mike stood, puffed on his cig, and opened the shelves above the stove.
Bottles of whiskey, wine, rum, vodka, and homemade mason jars were jammed into the space.
"You want something?" Mike asked.
"Like a bribe?"
"Man, you always play the cop around here? I swear this bus will be moved. We've already driven through any of the good snatch around here. It's on to bigger and better things." Mike hefted a full bottle of pineapple rum. "For you, kind sir."
David wasn't stupid. He palmed the bottle. "One hour."
"You got it."
"Where do you think you're going to park?"
Mike smiled. "Wherever Steve can find more ladies."
* * * * *
Tosha was drunk. Beyond-fucked-up-drunk, slobbering drunk right now. She knew because her dead twin sister was sitting on the bench across from her on Spanish Street.
"Don't start with me, Mathyu," Tosha said, referring to her sister's stupid nickname. "I'll be fine."
Tosha just needed to get home, but right now she wanted to put her fuzzy head down on the bench and sleep.
The last hour was now a blur. After leaving the bar, she'd run into Bobby, still nursing a swollen lip and jaw from her boot kick. To make it up to him—and because he carried a fifth of gin—she sat under a tree with him on Hypolita Street and shared the bottle. The entire bottle. Now she was gone, since she hadn't eaten a thing all day.
Bobby was left passed out under the tree and Tosha had a new wristwatch and his shoe laces.
Mathyu stared, unmoving, but with judgment etched on her face.
"You don't know me," Tosha whined and laughed. Of course she knew her. Who else knew her like her sister? Who else knew what she was going through on a daily basis, with survival, emotions, conflicts that arose not only from the zombies but from the asshole living she had to deal with.
Two people were stumbling down the empty street. Tosha shook her head to clear it, although it didn't really help. She needed a few hours to relax, sleep, and sober up.
"Shit, that kid is still loose," she whispered. She'd be in no position to track him in the morning.
As the couple approached she saw one of them was a large man, well over six feet tall, with long reddish hair and a few extra pounds of fat.
But Tosha was more interested in the woman with him, the redheaded whore from the bar.
She decided to fuck with them before heading home. As they got within twenty feet of her, Tosha stood and pointed her pistol. "Stop or I'll shoot."
They were both drunk, and the redhead fell against the guy before he righted her. "Seriously? You're going to rob someone?"
Tosha giggled. The gun was shaking in her
David had a mission here, and this wouldn't deter him. He couldn't open his mouth and form words, though, right now.
Steve pointed at the woman taking care of herself. "Hey, Danny, see if she needs a hand."
"David. My name is David. I need this bus moved."
"Not a problem," Steve said and put a hand on the back of his oral partner's head. "Can I finish here first?"
"I'm not kidding," David said.
“Neither am I." Steve laughed. "Are you going to just stand there and stare or jump into the fire?"
David turned away and stomped back down the hall.
Mike was sitting at the small table, trying in vain to light a wet cigarette.
"You need to move this tour bus," David said.
Mike grinned. "Is that what this is about?"
"I specifically told you—"
"No, you told Steve, who in turn, lied to me to get us to park here."
"I don't care who's to blame," David said.
"We were planning on moving in the next half hour. Once we grew bored with those three chicks."
"I don't believe you."
Mike smiled when the cigarette sparked. "Seriously, man. We had a nice day here, hanging with the refugees. I cooked over a hundred hot dogs and traded them for alcohol, even though we have enough to kill a person ten times over." Mike stood, puffed on his cig, and opened the shelves above the stove.
Bottles of whiskey, wine, rum, vodka, and homemade mason jars were jammed into the space.
"You want something?" Mike asked.
"Like a bribe?"
"Man, you always play the cop around here? I swear this bus will be moved. We've already driven through any of the good snatch around here. It's on to bigger and better things." Mike hefted a full bottle of pineapple rum. "For you, kind sir."
David wasn't stupid. He palmed the bottle. "One hour."
"You got it."
"Where do you think you're going to park?"
Mike smiled. "Wherever Steve can find more ladies."
* * * * *
Tosha was drunk. Beyond-fucked-up-drunk, slobbering drunk right now. She knew because her dead twin sister was sitting on the bench across from her on Spanish Street.
"Don't start with me, Mathyu," Tosha said, referring to her sister's stupid nickname. "I'll be fine."
Tosha just needed to get home, but right now she wanted to put her fuzzy head down on the bench and sleep.
The last hour was now a blur. After leaving the bar, she'd run into Bobby, still nursing a swollen lip and jaw from her boot kick. To make it up to him—and because he carried a fifth of gin—she sat under a tree with him on Hypolita Street and shared the bottle. The entire bottle. Now she was gone, since she hadn't eaten a thing all day.
Bobby was left passed out under the tree and Tosha had a new wristwatch and his shoe laces.
Mathyu stared, unmoving, but with judgment etched on her face.
"You don't know me," Tosha whined and laughed. Of course she knew her. Who else knew her like her sister? Who else knew what she was going through on a daily basis, with survival, emotions, conflicts that arose not only from the zombies but from the asshole living she had to deal with.
Two people were stumbling down the empty street. Tosha shook her head to clear it, although it didn't really help. She needed a few hours to relax, sleep, and sober up.
"Shit, that kid is still loose," she whispered. She'd be in no position to track him in the morning.
As the couple approached she saw one of them was a large man, well over six feet tall, with long reddish hair and a few extra pounds of fat.
But Tosha was more interested in the woman with him, the redheaded whore from the bar.
She decided to fuck with them before heading home. As they got within twenty feet of her, Tosha stood and pointed her pistol. "Stop or I'll shoot."
They were both drunk, and the redhead fell against the guy before he righted her. "Seriously? You're going to rob someone?"
Tosha giggled. The gun was shaking in her
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