Free Apocalypse Rising by Eric Swett Page B

after paying the cab fare, so I cross the street to a little diner for a coffee and some toast. I do not think I can afford anything more substantial. One of the mixed blessings of falling is hunger. For the first time ever you feel it, which is awful, but you appreciate those first bites of food like few others ever will.
    The diner is dark, and the lingering smell of cigarette smoke permeates every corner of the place, though smoking has been banned from restaurants for four years now. I slide into a booth, and pretend to look at a menu. A chubby, young waitress steps up to my table and asks what I would like to eat. I tell her and she stand there waiting for more. When I say nothing else, she sighs and walks away. I trace my finger through the thin layer of grease on the table. The same grease has probably been pushed around by a filthy rag every day for years.
    The people in the diner are only a step above the very ones I had been working so hard to help. They work hard, have their vices, and are most likely stuck right where they are. It is a hard climb to get above one’s station in this world, but one little slip and you can fall so far down the ladder that you never stop.
    A short, swarthy little man is staring at me. I think he wants me to lock gazes with him, but I am not in the mood. I know who he is, not personally, but I have seen the look. He stands and walks out of the diner, curiously ignoring me now. He will place a call once he is outside. Albert, or one of his associates, will know I am here.
    The same waitress brings my toast and cup of burnt coffee. I try to ask for cream, but she walks away before the plate stops rattling. A couple of packets of sugar, and some tasteless, dry creamer are added to the cup before I choke down my first sip of the day. The coffee scalds my throat and stomach. It sets off an internal need. I have not eaten since we started running, and I realize that I am starving. I devour the soggy toast after spreading a thin layer of grape jelly on it, and choke down the rest of the coffee. It is a poor final meal if things go bad.
    I look at the clock on the wall, and note that Albert's informer has been gone fifteen minutes. I should get going, but as bad as the coffee is, I need a second cup. I wave the waitress over and ask for a refill from the dirty pot she carries. She gives it to me with a tired sigh, and manages to only spill a little. It does not taste any better than the first cup, but it satisfies my need for the touch of reality it offers. I place the rest of my money on the table, the tip is more than the bill, and walk out the front door in time to see a grey sedan with black windows pull up across the street.
    I keep my head down, and walk across the street, nice and casual, like I do not see the four, gun toting, thugs in their bad suits, and movie-villain sunglasses. I am two paces from the sidewalk in front of Hitaratsu's front door, when one of them yells, "you! Stop right there!" I do the opposite, and bolt for the revolving doors in front of me. The quiet hiss of guns with silencers discharging fills the air moments before the screams. I get through the door, and look back through the half-inch, bullet proof, glass. People are running and screaming, at least those who have not been shot.
    The revolving door stops moving with an audible click. A half-dozen, heavily armed, men rush up to the entrance, and stare down my would-be assassins. My heart breaks for the people bleeding on the sidewalk, but I cannot help them, so I hold it inside.
    "Give me a good reason why I shouldn't shove you out that door, and let those men fill you full of holes." The words are accompanied by the press of cold steel against the back of my head. "Don't make me start counting." The voice is deep, but crisp, like the speaker had studied diction in college.
    I raise my hand, and say, “because the men outside work for Albert, and I am more useful to you alive in here, than I am dead