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Cade never did maybe. Maybe was a wicked bitch, a waste of time. Weeks. Fuck, years. He pulled a slow, deep breath in through his nose then coughed against a sour stench that seeped into his brain like red tide. His shoulders shook. The flashes in his mind returned, beckoned, promised, and called to that one thing—the answer to what the hell happened. Did he get what was promised. There was no deliverance, just more pain.
He gave up on the possibility of remembering and put all his effort into breathing through his mouth. The impact of the stench faded to a manageable level. The coughing slowed then stopped but the damage was done. The neon in his skull had exploded, causing sending shards of agony into his brain. He squinted and tried to put his forearm over his eyelids, but something sharp bit his wrist. He tried again. His arm jerked in response. He opened one eye.
On the floor of his truck were three cans of ReddiWip, two chocolate and one plain. There was also a pile of Taco Bell trash and an empty fifth of Jack. A lavender thong hung from the truck's shifter; Cade’s t-shirt was twisted around his left forearm and his wrist was handcuffed to the steering wheel. So it had been yes. He opened the other eye.
The 45 on the dashboard was a beauty. Black. Solid. Looked trustworthy. But seeing it there probably meant that yes should've been no.
Especially because it wasn’t his gun.
Except from BAIT by Isabelle Drake.
Get your copy of New Vintage Pulp: Zombies. Whiskey, blood and zombies. Two new vintage pulp stories by two authors.