Gun (Rough Draft)

   I can look down the barrel of my gun into his bright, unblinking eyes. I've got the barrel pressed against his cheek and he doesn't blink. He should be begging for his life. He should be wailing and groping like the swarming mass of sick people pressed against the bars of the cell. He should be afraid.
   I demand, "Where is the antidote?"

...

   Rewind the tape twelve years. America was imploding by the minute. The news claimed thousands were dying each day due to all sorts of things. You wouldn't think there could be that many people in America. You didn't know anyone who did die, but you knew people were dying, so you were afraid.

...

   I ask again, "Where is the antidote?" The infected still swarmed outside the prison cell. I pushed him closer to the center of the cell, away from the groping hands. I was nervous. "Where the Hell is the antidote?! Tell me or I'll blow you halfway to Hell and feed you to them!"

   He smiled, gun still at his tongue, "Feed me to them? What antidote?"

...

   Flashback five years. That's when the zombies started appearing. A politician, who I would later trap and kill in a prison cell, claimed to have created a virus turning humans into zombies. He also claimed to have an antidote. Everyone went crazy. The zombies spread like wildfire, beginning in the middle class before claiming the poor and the homeless. The rich claimed they had access to the antidote. They always smiled a knowing smile when they said this. Assholes.

...

   I scream, "The antidote to the virus! The cure you crazy piece of shit! How do I stop the virus?" I'm scared witless now. I cock the gun.

   He smiles again. "You don't understand, do you? This is a perfect chemical weapon. Primal, natural, unstoppable."

   "Shut up," I say, "and give me the antidote."

   The zombies outside the bars are screaming and wailing.

   He cocks his head in sync with the gun. "Do you know the difference between freedom and slavery? Free men make choices. Slaves obey."

   I am on my knees now, begging, "Give me the antidote, or I will kill you."

   "There is no antidote, there is no virus."

   "What?"

   "Fear, my good sir. I am the slave driver and fear is my whip. Frighten the masses, scare the shit out of them, push them to the brink, and they will flock like lemmings to a cliff. Humanity has the capacity to tear itself apart over nothing but irrational fear, and those who see the fear for what it really is, and manipulate it, can reap the rewards."

   "You're crazy."

   "There's a fine line ..."

   "No, shut up!" I scream, "You're no genius! You're a commercial! People like you come in thirty second clips on the television!"

   A pause. "Are you afraid of me?"

   "I'm going to kill you." I'm breathing hard. I put the gun to his forehead.

   Another pause. He points to the zombies. "Congratulations," he says, "you've become just another one of them." He spits the last word.

   I am the villain and fear is my shield.

   I shoot. His brain flies everywhere, and the people outside fight over it. I'm nervous, so I shoot him again, and then I stoop down to grab his head like some kind of sick apple, a stupid, primal fear and hunger in my eyes.

Ada and the Coffee

   The day started as a Wednesday. No different than yesterday, no different than last Wednesday, no different even than Sunday. Yes, for Archibald Dungary, this was a routine day.
    Step 1: Wake up, get out of bed. Heat the coffeepot in preparation for the morning coffee. A few minutes go by. Dungary glances at the door, suddenly quite nervous. Then, on cue, he looks at a picture of a terribly beautiful woman. Then, Dungary smiles. And so on.
   End of step 1, begin step 2. And so on.
   A whistling. The coffee was ready. Dungary poured himself a cup of coffee, then placed his mug in front of the picture to cool while he returned to his closet for one of his 7 blue work shirts. On his way out, Dungary gave a playful push to his rocking chair. It rocked and rocked. Upon returning to the kitchen, Dungary started to look quite nervous indeed. He shot a glance back to the picture for comfort, but his eyes fell on his mug. The mug was in the way, and Dungary could not see the picture. Dungary did not like that.
   "You again!" he said to the mug, rather sternly.
   The mug remained silent.
   Dungary spoke again, angrier this time. "Why ... could you give me a minute to not be nervous Muggy? You're always in the way!"
   The mug stood a little prouder.
   "You think you're tough, do you, Dr. Mugsalot?" Dungary rushed the mug and lifted it in the air. For one brief moment, Dungary considered pouring out the coffee. He almost found his redemption. Almost, but before he could, he glanced at the picture of the woman, and screamed. He rushed back to his rocking chair and began pleading to the picture, mug in hand, "Please, Ada, you caught me in the wrong place at the wrong time! I was about to pour ... believe me!"
   The picture watched.
   "You said I should be fine. I was. You said that if it bothered me, it would rip me to shreds. It does."
   The picture just watched.
   "Ada, talk to me. Whatever I called you, it was just a name. It was just a name, Ada! Ada, now that's a beautiful name ... there must be a better way to tear a whole apart, Ada. Ada?"
   Ada just watched Dungary slip away.
   Dungary leaned back in his chair and, on cue, the chair leaned away. Dungary grabbed his mug and almost threw it at Ada. His second chance at redemption. Instead, he took a sip of coffee, and felt a lot better. He remembered he didn't care about Ada anymore. Dungary smiled, and didn't look at Ada for the rest of the day. He told his mug, "For a little while, you'll stay right here." He didn't give Ada another thought. Dungary went to bed, somewhat happy. It was just a Wednesday, and tomorrow would be different.