Highway To Armageddon Read Online Free Page B

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all the way to the back. I finally come to a stop after careening into a
triangular tower of glass jars filled with liquid elixirs. The jars fall on top
of me, shattering when they hit the floor.
               
Cascading waves of white-hot agony wash over me. I gingerly touch my neck and
face. A few slivers of glass protrude out of my skin. Warm liquid oozes down my
face. I’m not sure if it’s blood or the elixirs. It’s probably a combination of
both.
               
I look up through tear-filled eyes. Big Daddy stares at me through the
shattered window. He points a gun directly at my head.
               
A thundering gunshot rings out through the lobby. At first I think Big Daddy
fired the shot. But then I see Big Daddy grab his shoulder and stagger out of
view. I spin around and watch two middle-aged pharmacists hop over their front
counter. Both pharmacists are wearing Kevlar vests over their white lab coats.
They’re also clutching machine guns.
               
“I’m tired of you scumbags shooting up our business and scaring away all of our
customers,” the silver-haired pharmacist grunts as he dashes after Big Daddy.
He leaps through the shattered window like an Olympic gymnast.
               
“When we’re done with ya, you stupid thugs will be crapping bullets for a
week,” the dark-haired pharmacist shouts, taking off after his partner.
               
I shake my throbbing head. You know you’re in a bad part of town when the
pharmacists are more heavily-armed than the military.
               
I slowly climb to my feet and pick out the shards of glass stuck in my face and
neck. If it wasn’t for my body armor I’d resemble a bloodied porcupine. I swipe
a bottle of painkillers from a shelf and pop a handful of pills in my mouth. It
won’t do much to numb the pain shooting through my veins, but it should make my
head a little less foggy.
               
I clumsily lumber outside. A cool breeze whips my hair in front of my face.
It’s about to rain. I can taste the moisture in the air.
               
Gunshots ring out in the distance. Flashes of gunfire illuminate a back alley
on the far end of the street.
               
I gaze at the carnage all around me. The pharmacy has been demolished. Other
businesses are riddled with bullet holes and broken windows. One of Big Daddy’s
thugs lies motionless in a puddle of blood. I realize it’s the first dude I
shot.
            The dirty
old perverts I took out before Big Daddy showed up are still sprawled out on
the ground. One of the perverts, however, is missing.
               
The revving of a turbo car engine causes me to snap my head around. I’m
astonished to find my brand new, $60,000 Stratosphere XV levitating off the
ground, with its wings fully extended. In the driver’s seat is the pervert who
started all this mess, the one who first hit on me.
               
“Get out of my goddamn car!” I scream.
               
I whip out my handgun and fire off several shots, taking out my back
windshield. But I’m just wasting my ammunition. The pervert slams on the pedal
and hurtles through the darkening sky at close to 100 miles an hour. I fire off
several more shots, just because I’m pissed, but none of them hit the pervert.
               
Another excruciating wave of pain washes over me, forcing me to my knees. It’s
so bad I can’t breathe. I probably have fractured bones and bruised organs.
It’s the story of my life. I pop off my cube-shaped belt buckle and open it.
The buckle doubles as a small container where I stash my pain pills. These
pills are even stronger than the ones I grabbed in the pharmacy. I grab a
couple and pop them in my mouth. As soon as I swallow them my pain recedes.
               
I hate the fact that I’m addicted to the damn things. I swore I would never
become a drug addict