Definitely hung over. Still hungry. Very screwed.
This house is empty. All that outdoor equipment? Just fishing gear. Nary a shotgun, rifle, or even bow and arrow. And closing the garage to find that out nearly got me killed.
Had already made it from the Baker’s to here. In celebration, I had eaten the last of the cereal, then returned downstairs to enter the garage.
The big aluminum door was three quarter's closed when I entered. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized that the mountain of fishing gear was just that. Not one granola bar in sight. Of course, in my frustration, I stopped paying attention to the half open door, but the moaner hadn’t. It was foolish idea to sigh, and an even worse to kick a fishing pole. How was I to know that a dead suburbanite had been shuffling toward the garage already? How was I to know that these things still have the (rotted) brain capacity to crouch and crawl?
By the time I realized that one of them was inside the fisher’s garage with me, it was four feet away, reaching out with it’s broken fingernails.
I only turned when it tripped over a pair of waders, sending it to the floor like the uncoordinated meat sack it is. Scared the hell outta me. My response was a bit enthusiastic. Turned it’s head into a thick stain on the concrete, and kept pounding for a while after that, too.
It was all I could do to not make another stain, this one down my jeans.
Following a quick dose of Mr. Baker’s Propranolol panic attack meds, I checked out the rest of this damn house.
Nothing. Now what am I going to do?
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