Free Whispers From The Abyss by Kat Rocha (Editor) Page B

way?”
    It wasn’t so much a friendly question, but an accusation.  I simply smiled putting on my best harmless face.  “Visiting some friends.”
    “What friends?”  Gilman demanded.
    “This is a free country, Man.”  Rooster opened his door and slid out.  He towered over Gilman by half a foot, but the gas attendant merely sniffed contemptuously.  The biker continued letting menace drip from every word.  “Why are you hassling us?”
    Gilman sneered with the grace of eel.  “Go away.  Visitors aren’t welcome.”
    Rooster shook his head and tossed me his sunglasses.  It was a universal signal of rough shit is coming and therefore cowards and writers should hide.  The biker laughed with wild abandoned and then pushed Gilman back with two hands.  Gilman was unmoved.  By that I mean Rooster couldn’t budge him an inch as though the very laws of physics did not affect Gilman.  He tilted his fat head confused.  “You should have left.”
    The gas attendant’s eyes budged like a wild frog and flashed red.  He growled and then hissed aggressively while drool dripped from his lips like a rabid dog.  Rooster stepped back, raising his fists, but was unprepared for the brutal savagery of this beast.  Two giants battled like the classic Rumble in the Jungle; George Foreman versus Muhammad Ali.  Rooster landed several blows, but like George, he was tiring quickly and losing to the faster opponent that moved with blinding speed. 
    To be fair, as an aside, I was paid to cover that fight, but I didn’t actually see it live.  I was sleeping off eight hits of high powered blotter acid while floating in a pool at the hotel. 
    The outcome was never in doubt and finally Gilman landed a final, solid blow to Rooster’s jaw that knocked him flat onto the gravel road.  He leapt on top of the biker and began to choke the life from him.  Gilman glanced up at me, trying not to soil my pants in the Impala, and hissed as though to warn me that I was next. 
    It was then at the moment my life was truly in danger that I finally remembered the .357 Magnum.  I opened the glove box and fished around through the papers until I found the pistol, cocked it, and then aimed it at the beast.  “Don’t make me do it!”
    Gilman coiled his muscles as though to strike.  I didn’t have a choice.  Or at least that’s what tell myself to help sleep at night without too many nightmares.
    Five times I squeezed the trigger.  Each shot struck true with an explosion of black blood and foul-smelling flesh.  He dropped to the ground next to Rooster.  The beast was dead. 
    Rooster slowly stirred and then sat up from the gravel road and coughed.  His eyes were dilated as a result of going ten rounds with a monster.  He bled profusely from his neck and chest where the monster had struck him with those savaging claws.
    I checked his wrist and sure enough his pulse was weak.  His lips trembled and his hands shook; classic signs of some sort of terrible overdose.  Had Gilman’s claws been poisoned with some sort of paralytic? 
    We couldn’t stay there long.  Who knew how many of these bastards were skulking about?  Rooster needed to stay awake.  If passed out, he might never wake.  If that poison shut down his heart, he would die.  There was only one option and that could kill him.  Opening the trunk, I pulled out my doctor’s bag.  We had thee bags of Pineapple Express Marijuana, two vials of pure cocaine, thirteen hits of blotter acid, mescaline, and two shots of epinephrine.  I needed to start his heart and the best method was epinephrine commonly known as adrenaline.
    “Please don’t die.”  I checked the needle, marked the location of his heart, and then jammed it into his flesh as hard as I could.  Rooster opened his eyes and screamed.  “Please don’t kill me!”
    Rooster plucked out the needle that had gotten stuck in his chest and then noted the blood.  “What the Hell was that?”
    Marsh’s warning