~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Chapter 2~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He awoke hours later. The fact of waking up surprised him. He was almost
sure the blood loss would kill him. It hurt to move his arm. He looked
around him. He had jumped into a bar. The owner had left in a rush the cash
register was still open. The cash was gone. . He grabbed the top of the bar
and pulled himself up.
Fire outside the window caught his eye. Fires were burning in the buildings across the street. He couldn't see how many where dead on the street, he had no desire to. He didn't have any medical training but he knew he had to clean the wound. He slowly limped towards the bathroom in the back. Noticing a smeary blood trail to the bathroom. Opening the door he found the owner of the blood. the victim was a middle-aged bald man. He had what looked like a ice pick shoved through his head. he leaned against a corner in his own pool of blood. Some flies were buzzing around his head suggesting he had been there for a few hours. The strong smell of feices almost forced Steven back into the bar. He had to swat a few fly's away from his arm. The wound was about 4 inches and about a quarter of a inch deep. and knew that he had to clean it before it became infected.
'Dam soviets took out the water mains' He thought as he tried the water. What was he going to do? If his arm got infected chances are he would have to lose it. Then the thought hit him.' What do you clean wounds out with? alcohol. where are you? a bar!' He mentally slapped himself for not thinking of it earlier. He hobbled back over to the bar. Most of the bottles had been taken. Only a one was left on the wall. A bottle of what looked like vodka. He grabbed it with his right arm and unscrewed the cap. He knew this would hurt. So he took a couple of swigs to try to null the pain. Clenching his teeth he poured the vodka over the wound. The pain was almost blinding, as if his arm had just been lit on fire. In the back of his mind he knew he had to do this, But he also slapped himself for not taking another swig. The Pain soon subsided, He checked the affect on his arm, Beside turning a shade of pink the wound still looked the same. He noticed something across the bar.
He knew he couldn't stay in the bar for long. Sooner or later someone would come in. Maybe soviets, Maybe the purp who used the ice pick to check to see check his victim. Either way he knew he had to find himself some protection. He looked around the bar. Most bartenders kept a gun behind the bar. Or at least a baseball bat or pipe. He found one under the cash register. He didn't know much about guns, but he knew it was a revolver, A old big revolver. He had seen the movies, He tried to open the gun to check the ammo. He pressed against the side for a few seconds before realizing he was pressing the wrong way. The gun had 5 shots in left. He found a box of ammo beside the gun and shoved as many shells as he could into his jeans. He had never killed anyone before. Hell he had never held a gun. Holding it filled him with a feeling of power.
His parents had censored him up until he was 14. That's when his dad had been offered the job in New York. That's when his world has changed. He was suddenly exposed to hundreds of new things his parents had censored him from. He became a Goth almost overnight. He wanted to see what he had been censored from, and they seemed like a good group to join to see the truths of the world. His parents hadn't been happy. They felt he had became a satin worshiping punk. His response was just to leave home for awhile. He left for over a month. His parents were so happy he had returned. The issue about Satin worshiping was never brought up again. If so he would have denied it. He didn't worship Satan or demons. He just liked the Idea of being a Goth. The dark side of human nature interested him. He took another swig of the vodka as he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked the same as yesterday, yet different. His 5'8 frame looked dirty and tired. His black hair was completely covered in dust. His left arm had been shot. Somehow his eyebrow ring had been lost. He felt tried. More than that he was hungry. There was nothing to eat in this bar. No penults, no crackers nothing. He set off towards the door. Shoving the gun in his belt after checking the safety. With every step his arm hurt. 'Some aspirin would be nice.' He joked to himself. He took one last look at the bar, And set out onto a broken city. The moon stared down ominously at him from above. He shut the door behind him, And set off.
Fire outside the window caught his eye. Fires were burning in the buildings across the street. He couldn't see how many where dead on the street, he had no desire to. He didn't have any medical training but he knew he had to clean the wound. He slowly limped towards the bathroom in the back. Noticing a smeary blood trail to the bathroom. Opening the door he found the owner of the blood. the victim was a middle-aged bald man. He had what looked like a ice pick shoved through his head. he leaned against a corner in his own pool of blood. Some flies were buzzing around his head suggesting he had been there for a few hours. The strong smell of feices almost forced Steven back into the bar. He had to swat a few fly's away from his arm. The wound was about 4 inches and about a quarter of a inch deep. and knew that he had to clean it before it became infected.
'Dam soviets took out the water mains' He thought as he tried the water. What was he going to do? If his arm got infected chances are he would have to lose it. Then the thought hit him.' What do you clean wounds out with? alcohol. where are you? a bar!' He mentally slapped himself for not thinking of it earlier. He hobbled back over to the bar. Most of the bottles had been taken. Only a one was left on the wall. A bottle of what looked like vodka. He grabbed it with his right arm and unscrewed the cap. He knew this would hurt. So he took a couple of swigs to try to null the pain. Clenching his teeth he poured the vodka over the wound. The pain was almost blinding, as if his arm had just been lit on fire. In the back of his mind he knew he had to do this, But he also slapped himself for not taking another swig. The Pain soon subsided, He checked the affect on his arm, Beside turning a shade of pink the wound still looked the same. He noticed something across the bar.
He knew he couldn't stay in the bar for long. Sooner or later someone would come in. Maybe soviets, Maybe the purp who used the ice pick to check to see check his victim. Either way he knew he had to find himself some protection. He looked around the bar. Most bartenders kept a gun behind the bar. Or at least a baseball bat or pipe. He found one under the cash register. He didn't know much about guns, but he knew it was a revolver, A old big revolver. He had seen the movies, He tried to open the gun to check the ammo. He pressed against the side for a few seconds before realizing he was pressing the wrong way. The gun had 5 shots in left. He found a box of ammo beside the gun and shoved as many shells as he could into his jeans. He had never killed anyone before. Hell he had never held a gun. Holding it filled him with a feeling of power.
His parents had censored him up until he was 14. That's when his dad had been offered the job in New York. That's when his world has changed. He was suddenly exposed to hundreds of new things his parents had censored him from. He became a Goth almost overnight. He wanted to see what he had been censored from, and they seemed like a good group to join to see the truths of the world. His parents hadn't been happy. They felt he had became a satin worshiping punk. His response was just to leave home for awhile. He left for over a month. His parents were so happy he had returned. The issue about Satin worshiping was never brought up again. If so he would have denied it. He didn't worship Satan or demons. He just liked the Idea of being a Goth. The dark side of human nature interested him. He took another swig of the vodka as he looked at himself in the mirror. He looked the same as yesterday, yet different. His 5'8 frame looked dirty and tired. His black hair was completely covered in dust. His left arm had been shot. Somehow his eyebrow ring had been lost. He felt tried. More than that he was hungry. There was nothing to eat in this bar. No penults, no crackers nothing. He set off towards the door. Shoving the gun in his belt after checking the safety. With every step his arm hurt. 'Some aspirin would be nice.' He joked to himself. He took one last look at the bar, And set out onto a broken city. The moon stared down ominously at him from above. He shut the door behind him, And set off.
