Dead Wrong

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A sharp rap next to his ear awakened Bradley Evans out of a troubled sleep and plunged him headlong into the worst hangover of his life. Or maybe it was a pre-hangover. Even before he managed to open his eyes, the world began spinning. He felt sick. He was so parched his tongue and lips seemed ready to splinter into pieces. Every bone in his body ached, and he was cold as hell.

The second sharp rap was accompanied by an authoritative voice. “Unlock the door, son. Then place both hands on your head and step out of the truck.”

Bradley groaned. Step out of the truck? he wondered. What truck? What the hell am I doing in a truck?

“I’m warning you,” the voice said again. “Unlock the door, hands on your head, and step out of the vehicle!”

Less than six months out of the army, Bradley was still accustomed to following orders from someone in authority, so he did his best to comply, but when he finally managed to open his eyes all he saw was blood-clots of blood everywhere: on the windshield, the dashboard, the rearview mirror. And on him, too-smeared on his hands, shirt, pants, and shoes. Somehow he managed to unlock the door, but he was incapable of stepping out of the vehicle on his own. Instead, he leaned out of the truck and retched onto the pavement, splashing bright yellow bile that still reeked of beer onto the deputy’s highly shined pair of boots.

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