After the Apocalypse Read Online Free Page B

of the way. He was starting to sober up a little. Cahill got him down to the street.
    “I’ll get the rest of the whiskey,” Cahill said.
    “What the fuck you playing at?” LaJon muttered.
    Cahill took the stairs two at a time in the dark. He grabbed pillows, blankets, and the whiskey bottle and went back down to the sidewalk. He handed LaJon the whiskey bottle. “It’s not so hot out here,” he said, although it was on the sidewalk with the sunlight.
    LaJon eyed him drunkenly.
    Cahill went back upstairs and came down with a bunch of couch cushions. He made a kind of bed and got LaJon to sit on it. “We’re okay in the day,” he said. “Zombies don’t like the light. I sleep in the day. I’ll get us upstairs before night.”
    LaJon shook his head, took another slug of whiskey, and lay back on the cushions. “I feel sick,” he said.
    Cahill thought the motherfucker was going to throw up, but instead LaJon was snoring.
    Cahill sat for a bit, planning and watching the street. After a bit, he went back to his apartment. When he found something good scavenging, he squirreled it away. He came downstairs with duct tape. He taped LaJon’s ankles together. Then his wrists. Then he sat LaJon up. LaJon opened his eyes, said, “What the fuck?” drunkenly. Cahill taped LaJon’s arms to his sides, right at his elbows, running the tape all the way around his torso. LaJon started to struggle, but Cahill was methodical and patient, and he used the whole roll of tape to secure LaJon’s arms. From shoulders to waist, LaJon was a duct tape mummy.
    LaJon swore at him, colorfully, then monotonously.
    Cahill left him there and went looking. He found an upright dolly at a bar and brought it back. It didn’t do so well where the pavement was uneven, but he didn’t think he could carry LaJon far, and if he was going to build a fire, he didn’t want it to be close to his place, where zombies could pin him in his apartment. LaJon was still where he had left him, although when he saw Cahill, he went into a frenzy of struggling. Cahill let him struggle. He lay the dolly down and rolled LaJon onto it. LaJon fought like anything, so in the end, Cahill went back upstairs and got another roll of duct tape and duct-taped LaJon to the dolly. That was harder than duct-taping LaJon the first time, because LaJon was scared and pissed now. When Cahill finally pulled the dolly up, LaJon struggled so hard that the dolly was unmanageable, which pissed Cahill off so much he just let go.
    LaJon went over and without hands to stop himself, face-planted on the sidewalk. That stilled him. Cahill pulled the dolly upright then. LaJon’s face was a bloody mess, and it looked like he might have broken a couple of teeth. He was conscious, but stunned. Cahill started pushing the dolly, and LaJon threw up.
    It took a couple of hours to get six blocks. LaJon was sober and silent by the time Cahill decided he’d gone far enough.
    Cahill sat down, sweating, and used his T-shirt to wipe his face.
    “You a bug,” LaJon said.
    Bug was prison slang for someone crazy. LaJon said it with certainty.
    “Just my fucking luck. Kind of luck I had all my life. I find one guy alive in this fucking place, and he a bug.” LaJon spat. “What are you gonna do to me?”
    Cahill was so tired of LaJon that he considered going back to his place and leaving LaJon here. Instead, he found a door and pried it open with a tire iron. It had been an office building, and the second floor was fronted with glass. He had a hell of a time finding a set of service stairs that opened from the outside on the first floor. He found some chairs and dragged them downstairs. Then he emptied file cabinets, piling the papers around the chairs. LaJon watched him, getting more anxious.
    When it looked like he’d get a decent fire going, he put LaJon next to it. The blood had dried on LaJon’s face and he’d bruised up a bit. It was evening.
    Cahill set fire to the papers and stood, waiting for