Juice Box

There really aren’t a lot of things that I’m afraid of.

I was never scared of mice or spiders. Plenty of them used to hang around my college dorm. I even earned the unfortunate nickname of “rats” after a memorable group photo in which a large rodent found its way onto my head. I barely even flinched. Snakes were never a problem, either: I had a pet garter until I was nine.

Guns? Not an issue. Couldn’t have been, growing up with my dad. Same thing with knives and my mom. She’s not Jewish, but you might think she is if you met her. Big round lady, cooks like a typhoon and has enough sharp objects in her kitchen to convince you it’s a torture chamber. My dad just likes to shoot things, hence the guns.

Not the dark, not fire, not heights. And not death. Most certainly not death.

I am, however, afraid of needles, which doesn’t come in handy when a man in a white coat has just pierced your flesh with a nine-inch silver point. I feel the muscle in my arm contract as it is punctured, and there’s a brief burning sensation. I can take it, but I’m eager to have the thing out of me. Maybe my shuddering gives that away.

“Feeling all right?” The man in the white coat, who may or may not be a doctor, seems mildly concerned about my well-being. I’m touched.

I nod.
“Yeah. How long is the pain supposed to last?”

A voice from my left.
“It affects your mind, not your balls, private. You can take it.”

That would be Sgt. Murray, my superior officer and our platoon’s resident hardass. Not too surprising, given his position. He’s having the same experience I’m having… Minus the anxiety. Two other men and one woman sit to his left, none of which I know, ascending in rank order. If wonder if any of them are as nervous as I am. I doubt it.

The needle finally recedes, and I clutch the newly formed prick in my arm. It burns like a fiery acid. As I’ve been trained, I turn to Sarge for information.

“Where to next?”
“The bunker. We’ll rejoin with the platoon, get supplies, and move out. You’ll stack ammo and be in one of the supply convoys.”
“Yes sir.”

The man in the white coat steps back from the last soldier in the line, and looks over all of us.
“You’re free to go. Tell your superior if you experience anything strange.”

I get up, and walk out. I feel very hungry, and I’m aware of an intense desire building inside of me. As I step into the mud outside, it soon becomes a need.
Funny thing is, I don’t know what for.

~0~

Before I continue, I suppose I should mention a little about myself. Not because I feel particularly obligated to do so, but more because stacking ammunition is a boring pain in the ass.

My name is William Dadd. Don’t call me Willy, and don’t call me dad. I’m twenty-two, which makes it two years since I was drafted. I come from a long line of soldiers, by which I mean my dad (“Sir”, as I was made to call him) was a major in Iraq. His dad (“dad”, as he was called) was a general in Vietnam. I’m just a private. Notice a trend?

I spent most of my childhood playing videogames and wondering how long until college. I got my bachelor’s in psychology, and was hoping for a master’s until the draft hit. And the draft hit hard, almost surpassing its “draft” status and achieving such levels as “gust” or even “torrent”. By the way, I’m not known in the platoon for my sense of humor.

I got assigned to Sarge and my platoon randomly, just like everybody else. Sarge has been a sergeant for years, getting passed up for promotions since the beginning of the war. I’ve heard he felt out of the army’s good graces when one of his mistakes led to the death of everyone in his old platoon. Meanwhile, his son killed himself on account of bipolar disorder back home. I don’t think Sarge would have taken it too well.

But anyway, the war and the draft basically kicked America’s butt, and Uncle Sam got left with some strong alliances, a measly chunk of the economy and basically none of its youth. And the war rages on. We used up all our really good soldiers in the first couple of years: The strong ones, the eager ones, the ones who cared. And besides, what kid is going to be gung-ho about fighting in some long, gigantic war with a bunch of terrorists? None, that’s who. This is where I come in.

A few hours ago, I was injected with a little magic potion the tech department brewed up. Supposedly, it will make me want to fight. Supposedly, it will make me care about this war.

Supposedly.

The ammo is stacked.
Looks like it’s time to move out.

~0~

Have you ever dodged bullets?
No, of course you haven’t. And you’ve never known anyone who has. It doesn’t matter what soldier – what war, what battle, what story – is talking to you. If he says he’s dodged bullets, that soldier is full of shit. Dodging bullets is impossible. I don’t care what Hollywood thinks. If someone’s shooting at you, you’re going to get shot. There is a trick, however.

The key here is to make sure that the enemy is not shooting at you. What you want is to fire at another target, such as, say, the air three feet behind or to the left of you. As long as no one was every aiming at you in the first place, you’ll be fine. Keep on the move, don’t draw attention, know how to use cover, and you’ll be fine.

That said, there’s still a pretty decent chance you’ll get your ass blown off.

As I run through the falling piles of debris, listening to the screams and ricocheting bullets, I find it mildly ironic that the thing I’m focused on is that I seem to be swearing more than usual. To be fair, that is somewhat significant: As a kid, I was known for being a smartass (see? Foul language, right there) but never for my temper. When I was little, I never had tantrums, and didn’t go through any of that teen angst bullshit. I always controlled my mouth.

I squeeze off two shots, and hear a human body collapse against the dirt.

My trigger finger is literally itching. Is that how they did it? Juiced me up just so I could get this little tingling in my forefinger? I guess the army really is running out of ideas.

Reload.
Heartbeat.

But ok, maybe that’s not it. I do admit that since the injection I’ve been a bit more… Eager. But not for any of that movie crap. I don’t care about the war, or helping my platoon.

I just want to kill.
And so far, that’s just what I’ve been doing.

Is that…?
Shit!
Duck for cover.
One. Two. Three-
Shit… That was Daniels. I liked Daniels.
Goodbye, Daniels. Fucking grenades.

Heartbeat.
Heartbeat.

Suddenly, a new feeling begins to grip me.

Two shots. One to the head, one to the chest.
The first one got him.

A strange adrenaline begins to course through my veins, and my vision is getting blurry. My hands are shaking.
Sounds around me are fading.
I start to stumble.
What’s happening to me?

Heartbeat.
Heartbeat.
Heartbeat…

I close my eyes, and the noises of the battlefield begin to mesh and blur. The gunshots, the explosions, the screams of pain in familiar and foreign tongues… It all becomes the same. The noises are those of some horrible monster, a war beast that knows only how to scream in rage and agony. It speaks in bullets, and sings in death.

Heartbeatheartbeatheartbeatheartbeat-

And then it’s all gone.
I can hear more clearly than ever before, and every image I see is crystal and lucid. I feel stronger, more excited ….
One catch.

Heartbeat.

I need to kill.
Now.

Sprinting across the battlefield, I reload and shoot three soldiers with accuracy I never dreamed I was capable of. I waste a grenade on a structure with only a few people in it.
I don’t care.
I wanted the explosion, not the results.

“What the hell are you doing, Private?!”
One of my fellow officers screams at me. I don’t give a shit what the bastard thinks.
I need blood. I need death.

Sarge is in the same frenzy I am, and he runs up beside me. We are animals on the hunt. We shoot, we scream. We kill.

Pretty soon, darkness begins to creep over me.
I collapse into the dirt.
Shit.

~0~

“Feeling any better, berserker?”
Oh my.
Judging by the restraints, I think now would be a good time to go back to sleep.

~0~

A heavy kick into the side of my stomach wakes me up, my eyes opening and staring into the bright light shining above. I instantly recoil, groaning.

“Can’t sleep forever, private. You’ve had two hours. Up!”
It’s Sarge. He kicks me again.

“…Sarge?”
“Get your ass up!”
One more kick, and I notice that my restraints are gone. Slowly, I stand.

The room surrounding me is practically Spartan: The bed on which I was lying, a basin with water, a mirror, and a chair where Sarge sat a minute ago. He has apparently vacated the chair, and now stands directly in front of the bed. I step back.

“Sir…”

His veins show clearly through his skin, creating strange blue patterns on his face.
Quite frankly, it’s rather unattractive.

“It’s a…. It’s a side effect.” His voice quivers.
“Take a look at your own god damned face, private!”
An extravagant gesture sends me over to the mirror.

Oh God.
I reach up, stroking my cheek with my fingers.
The same repulsive lines are embedded in my own face.
“Yeah. Our entire lives.” He read my mind.

“…Why?”
As I speak, the spider webs of blood almost seem to pulse.
“Something about the new chemicals altering our system. I’ll be damned if I understand it….” Another pause. Sarge sounds… Older. More reserved than usual. He lets the situation sink in as I run my hand across my face. The veins on my hand, arms, and legs are equally visible.

“They asked me to explain to you, seeing as we’re pretty much in the same god-damn boat. The Juice they loaded into us… They can’t get it out. That little trip we both had will happen if we get too pissed off.” Sarge pulls a small carton of Marlboro’s from his pocket, and pulls a cigarette out.
“We’re just going to have…” He lit it.
“To deal with it.” He brings a cigarette up to his lips. I must admit, it looked pretty cool. Hell, if it weren’t for the way his face was, it would have looked movie cool.
Ok, well, maybe a Wes Craven movie.

Sarge is smoking as a way of ending the conversation. We both know how ridiculously inadequate the explanation he has just given me is, but he certainly doesn’t have anything better to offer. Besides, what is there anyone can do? The army had made a mistake. I had made a mistake too, by going through with it... But it could be worse. The veins can probably be covered by makeup.

Sarge laughs.
“It took 3 guys to get you to stop shooting. They had to use a few god-damned tranquilizer darts.” I wonder how long Sarge has held that particular hyphenated word as his favorite piece of vocabulary. I also wonder where they got the tranquilizer darts, but I suppose that’s not as important an issue in the grand scheme of things. I’ll probably be experiencing both for the rest of my army career, the latter on the battlefield and the former everywhere else.

Things aren’t so bad. I just have to make the most of what I’m stuck with.

And besides, I’m sure it doesn’t hurt to have that stuff flowing through you when you’re holding an AK-47.

~0~

A year passes by.

I am a hunter.
I rush through the wreckage, firing my rifle with accuracy and hatred.
I am a warrior.
What puny enemy dares to defy me? Who will face the wrath of my bullets?
I am a God.
I move like an animal. My rounds pierce through flesh and bone, slaying dozens.
I am a predator.
They fall like toys. Like rag dolls. Mostly into pools of their own blood, and shit.
You are my prey.
Pathetic. Pitiful. Puny, worthless piles of meat that serve only-
What’s this?
A tranquilizer dart! I swipe it off before it can inject its poison into me.
I turn around.
“Dadd! Stand down! For Christ’s sake, private, you’re killing-”
Sad man. I will show him.
I load my rifle, and begin to fire its contents into the Lieutenant’s chest. He staggers backward and falls to the ground.
Another demon.
Soon, Sarge runs to join me. We empty clip after clip into the corpse of our pathetic superior officer.
Survival of the fittest.
The world goes cold as a bullet hits me in the side.

~0~

Four years.
What does four years mean to you?
When my father was four, he got his first bike.
When I was four, I saw my first gun.
Four years.
Four years of shooting and screaming, of shouting warnings and taking commands. Four years of throwing grenades and loading guns, of planting bombs and tackling insurgents.
Four years of shooting, burning, blowing up, crushing, poisoning, and occasionally, stabbing other human beings.
Four years is a long time to be a soldier. And an even longer time to be a murderer.

And what happened in four years? Nothing unexpected. The war ended a week ago. America won. Uncle Sam finished bombing the poor shit hole of a country we were in, got comfortable there, and built lots of McDonald’s. For our side, the death toll was in the tens of millions.

Sarge and I were both pardoned for any “discrepancies” in our military careers. It’s not like we could be court marshaled for something that wasn’t our fault. I wonder just how many “discrepancies” were made on my part, and how many the army had to cover up.

But now I’m going home.

Sarge and I also both decided to refer to the stuff in us ominously as “The Juice”. It was a perfectly fitting label, and we even had our own quick terminology.
“I killed forty soldiers when I was on The Juice today.”
“Not now, Private. I’m cooling off The Juice.”
And so forth. And what were we? Sarge called us “Juice Boxes”. Simple.

Three separate attempts to get The Juice out of our systems had failed. Sarge and I were the only survivors of the experiment: Two of the others had been shot by their own subordinates, and the one woman had killed herself. And in all honesty, I can’t say I’m too worried about it affecting me. The Juice only kicks in if I get really angry, and I don’t expect that to happen in normal life.

But now I’m going home.

What can I learn from my army experience? Other than how to drive a tank and cure chronic diarrhea, I guess the only thing I could tell you is that war sucks.

And now I’m going home.

I’m sorry if I’m starting to seem a little repetitive here.
I just like the sound of those words.

As I stare out the window of the taxi cab, I consider all of the things I have mentioned. Sarge was released a month ago, for being in “an emotionally unstable” condition. Not that I can blame him. Losing your son, getting turned into a killing machine… Sometimes, it’s all just too much. I wonder if he feels responsible for his kid’s death, for not being there for him. Maybe I’ll call him up some time. Speaking of which, my cell phone is ringing.

“Hello?”
“Hi sweetie. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to pick you up.”
Three adjectives to describe Marilyn Dadd: Big, warm, apathetic. A little like the sun.
“That’s fine, mom. I got a cab. I’m glad to be back.”
“Your father and I both overslept. There was a Stooge’s marathon last night, and I was going to come and-”
“It’s ok, mom. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
Phone conversations with my mother rarely end with either one of us saying goodbye. The trick is to know when to cut her off. Otherwise, she could probably deplete the Earth’s oxygen supply just by talking about herself.

A few minutes later, I’m home.

The easiest way for me to describe my parent’s house is this: Picture your traditional, all-American “white picket fence” house. Now, place it in the crowded edge of a major city. Now, make it a depressing shade of faded yellow. Now, put tacky pink flamingoes and ornaments all over the unkempt lawn. Now, make the sky gray and the pavement always look like it’s just been rained on. Now, put two cold, uncaring people in it. Tada! My parent’s house!

The front door is locked, as always. I ring the doorbell once, and then once again about twenty seconds later. I hear a couple of latches clicking, and my mom opens the door. There’s a moment of recognition as she sees my face, and I know she’s cringing on the inside.
“William! Come in, come in!” Same old hug. Same old mom.
“It’s so good to have you back. Every day we worried about you. Your father painted the deck, and I got into a couple of crossword championships, and-” As my mother babbles about her life, I marvel at the disorganized state of the house. It looks exactly the same as always. The dim sound of a television permeates from the living room, and I can see the back of my father’s head hovering above an armchair. He’s probably watching sports, or some reality show. His prized shotgun remains mounted on the wall above the TV.

“But enough about all that. I’m sure you’d like to say hello to your father.” She begins to lead me toward the living room.
“Robert! Your son is home!” Depending on which parent, I’m always either his son or her son. My father does not turn around. He sits on his butt, and waits for me to enter the living room. Reluctantly, I do.

My father is a tall man, with slight beard stubble and a gray-but-thick head of hair. He has a red nose (guess why?) and cold, blue eyes, which my inner writer would describe as “accusing”. He has a large nose and a small jaw. Other than that, he just looks tired. As I step into his domain, I feel as though he’s already blaming me for some failing in his own life.
“How long are you going to be here?” My father speaks with a very mild Texan droll.
“Maybe a week. I’m going to start school again. Finish my-”
“You have seven days. After that, you’re out of here.” He’s never wasted too many words on me.
“Yes, sir.”

I walk upstairs to the guest room that I know my mom has neatly prepared for me, and I sit on the bed. The spread is ugly, but it does have a mattress, which is a welcome change. I lie down.

I was raised in this house.
In my early years, I delighted in my father’s gun collection. He was so proud of me. By age 5, I could shoot BBs better than any of the eleven year olds could, but my interest quickly shifted toward comic books and video games. For his part, my dad worked at a steel mill, and came home drunk every other night. He only ever beat me a few times, and I don’t know about mom. My High School experience was plagued by fears of the awkwardness that would entail bringing friends and girls home, with my dad taking pleasure in his clear dominance over me and my mom retreating to her room, where alcohol and a romance novel always awaited her. When I told my dad I wasn’t going to be a soldier, he stopped talking to me. When I told him I wanted to be a psychologist, he told me I was dead to him.

When I was drafted, he just laughed.

I roll over. It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. In a week, I’ll get myself in order and head back to school. No more apathetic mom. No more major jackass.
I close my eyes, and sink into the warmth of sleep.

~0~

Shit.
How long can that man watch TV for?

I crawl out of bed. The clock says 12:31, and I believe it. The noises of the TV are almost blaring downstairs.
Bastard.
I stumble through the hall, rubbing my eyes and trying to shake the funk that’s following me. The noise gets unbearably loud by the time I’m in the living room.
Son of a bitch.
Wait.
Why am I swearing so much?

My dad looks up at me.
“Jesus, boy. What the hell happened to your face?”

Heartbeat.

Maybe he was too drunk to notice last time.
“It was an accident… Nerve gas. The insurgents used it.”

Heartbeat.
Heartbeat.

Suddenly, a new feeling begins to grip me. Uh oh.
“Isn’t there some makeup you can put on that, or something? You’re ugly as hell.”
I’m not even angry. Why is this happening? My vision begins to blur. I shake it off… It’s just me. It’s just my father being a dick. Nothing needs to happen. I just have to stay calm.
“Sorry I’m not pretty enough for you, sir. Would you mind turning the TV down?” Now he’s pissed.
“You know what? I’m glad you look like that. Now you’re outside finally matches your inside. Say goodbye to your female companionship, boy. You little freak.”
Bastard. Asshole. Son of a-
“Whatever you say, dad.”
Now he stands up.
“What did you just call me?!” I want to fight back. I want to get angry. But I know I can’t risk that. My vision’s blurred again, and my hands are starting to shake… I look at him.
“…Stop. Please. I need you to-”

Heartbeat.
Heartbeat.
Heartbeat…

“You little shit!” He stares at me, enraged by my insolence.
Heartbeatheartbeatheartbeatheartbeat-

And suddenly, everything is crystal clear. I can see every pore on my father’s angry face, and hear every one of his snarling breaths. Just one catch.

I need to kill.
Now.

As my dad charges at me, I feel the hatred of a lost childhood well up inside. But I have to hold back. No matter how big of a dick he is, I can’t kill him. I just can’t.

I am a hunter.

“Dad... Sir… Stop it! Please! Get away from-”
I throw him off me with ease, much stronger now that The Juice is flowing through me. My hands take on a life of their own, and punch him across the head. My dad staggers backwards, surprised by my strength. I’m sweating profusely, now. The urge to kill him is like a horrible flame, burning inside of me.

“Bastard…”
A new sort of loathing flowing through him, my father wipes the blood from his face as I struggle to control my desires. By now I can tell that he’s much more drunk than I had originally thought. Quickly and recklessly, he pulls the shotgun off the wall above the TV. As always, it’s loaded with the six bullets he had left at the end of Iraq.
“You’ve had this coming for a long time now, boy.”

I am a warrior.

He cocks it.

Now, I rush at him. As I pin him to the floor, the shotgun falls out of his hands. He angrily swipes and punches at my head. I grab the shotgun.

The Juice flows through me. I aim at his face.
I can’t control myself.

I am a God.

I squeeze the trigger, and breathe out for a long time.
Perhaps my thousandth kill, and perhaps my fifth murder.
The room is very quiet.

~0~

I have to find Sarge.
Something is very, very wrong.
I hardly even got angry, and The Juice took over. Sarge will know what’s going on.
He has to.

I don’t think I’m physically capable of considering what I’ve just done right now. My hands are shaking terribly, and it’s hard for me to grab the keys from my dad’s pocket. I also take the shotgun, just in case. My mom sleeps with earplugs, and the noise of the TV probably drowned the gunshot out, so I don’t think she woke up. But the neighbors may have heard. No time to calm down. I have to move.

My heightened sensitivity makes the trip from my house to the hospital very interesting. I can smell every fume of oil, and hear each revolution of all four wheels. The steering wheel to me is a thousand fibers of individually textured leather.

Still, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to mow down a few pedestrians.
I resist the urge, and pull into the parking lot of the hospital.

Sarge told me which hospital he would be in before he left because of his “emotionally unstable” condition. I’m lucky it’s in the same city as me.

My heart pumping, my sweat pouring, and The Juice flowing through my body, I run through the parking lot and into the reception room. There’s one guy waiting there, and he stares at me wide eyed. He runs out.
Stupid veins.

The female receptionist, for her part, seems exhausted. She looks down at her magazine.
“Excuse me.” She looks up, and stares at me, suddenly alarmed. Am I that hideous? Probably, but I realize I’m also still holding the shotgun.
Shit. Stupid.
Whatever. I can still use it to my advantage, I hold it up, making sure it’s not loaded.
“Sgt. Adam Murray,” I say. She hastily looks down at her computer and pushes a couple of magic buttons.
“Room 231. Second floor.” I nod, and lower the shotgun. My urges remain strong.

One seemingly eternal elevator ride later, I’m on the second floor, heart pumping so loud I can hear it.
Room 241, Room 243…
Other way.
Room 241, Room 239, Room 237, Room 235... And there’s 233.
My clothes are drenched with sweat. I knock.
A weak voice tells me to come in.

The room feels cold and clinical. Sterile tools lie next to a white bed, with a black TV suspended above it and a single window behind it. Lying on the white bed is Sarge, and next to Sarge is a chair. I don’t bother.

Sarge, for his part, looks like Hell. His veins practically stick out of his face, and all of his hair’s fallen out. He’s ghostly pale. Sarge doesn’t look at all like he should… But I have my own problems to worry about.
“Sarge… I need you to talk quickly, and don’t piss me off.”
“On The Juice, private?” His voice is pitiful and weak, but also knowing.
“I don’t know what’s happening. I didn’t even get too angry. The war ended a week ago, I came back here… I killed my dad, Sarge. I just snapped.”
“I know. Why the hell do you think I’m here?” Sarge erupts into a brief coughing fit.
“They said you had ‘emotional issues’ or some crap like that. I didn’t believe it.” He laughs, rasping.
“My ‘emotional issues’ are lung cancer, Private. It kept me off the battlefield for a week, but The Juice started kicking in. Same thing that happened to you. The medics examined me… I even killed one of them before they figured it out.”

I think I hear a cop car in the distance.

“What? What the hell did they figure out?!” Shit. The Juice is getting stronger. Sarge speeds up.
“The Juice… It’s not a chemical. It’s a virus, or a bacteria. It doesn’t just make us better killers, it feeds off of our killings. It’s symbiotic-”
“Hurry up!”
“We can’t starve it. If we don’t kill for too long, it gets pissed, and we’re on The Juice again. I’m sorry, private.” The sirens are getting closer.
“What about… What about the army? Can’t they do anything?” Again, the same raspy laugh.
“For a couple of Juice Boxes like us? Private, do you really think the military wants to admit that it’s caused a physiological addiction to murder? How do you think that will go over with the general public? Nope. The best they could do for me is put me on about a dozen different tranquilizers. Sorry, soldier. We’re on our own.”
The sirens stop.
Shit. Damn-it. Son of a bitch.
“So you mean…”
“Yeah. We’re fucked.”
I hear the shuffling of feet, and doors slamming. Someone loud barks orders. The receptionist must have called the cops.

I sit in the chair. Is this the end? Is this what I deserve? I’ve killed, and I’ve murdered. But I don’t want to die like this. Not when it isn’t my own fault. I could hold them off with The Juice, but not with five bullets. That would be suicide.

Sarge looks at me, and sits up.

“You know, private. I had a lot of soldiers serving under me in our platoon. You’re not the best.” I look at him.
“But I think you might be my favorite.”
Now he’s starting to get out of bed. It looks like a tremendous effort, considering the cancer and the tranquilizers, but he manages. I want to steady him, but he waves me away.

“Private… Get me pissed.”
And then I understand.
“Sarge, you can’t… You’re not in any condition to…” He’s staring at me.
“I won’t let you-”
“Get me pissed, private. That’s an order.” I look at him.

“You’re pathetic. You were a terrible sergeant. All the men that died in our platoon were your fault.” His veins quiver a little. He stares at me, wide eyed.
“Now you’re an old man, dying of a poison you gave yourself. You’re going to die, Adam.” It feels awkward to call him that, but I know I have to. It’s working.
“You’re going to die alone and unloved, hated by your subordinates and thought of as a freak by the world. The nurses probably can’t even look at you.” He’s shaking, now. I see something in his eyes, like what I’m saying hits a very sensitive part of him. But I can’t stop now.
“Keep going,” he says. The police are charging through the hallway.
“The guys in your old platoon… They were your fault. Your son’s death…”

I pause. How far am I willing to go?

“Your son’s death was your fault.”
Sarge stops shaking. His veins quiver. That did it.
“Get out. Now.”
I drop the shotgun.
“Thanks, Sarge.”
“NOW, GOD-DAMNIT, NOW!!!”

I look around. There’s only one way out. I break the window with my fist, and leap out of it as I hear Sarge cock the shotgun.

I fall one story, and sprint out along the grass.
Behind me, I hear an animalistic scream.
It’s the scream of a man whose life has taken him to dark, cold places.

As I run through the parking lot, I don’t look back.

~0~

And finally, the million dollar question.
What do I do now?
No longer running through the parking lot, I walk through the streets of the inner city.

My heart rate is at a steady thump.
I barely sweat in the cool weather.
Where ever The Juice is within me, it lies dormant.

What do I do now?

How long will I be able to go until I have to kill again?
A week? Two weeks?
Maybe I shouldn’t be allowed on the streets.
But maybe I don’t plan on turning myself in.

What do I do now?
I’m going to improvise.

I’ll move around. See the world. I have more than enough cash to do so. Despite its… Flaws, the army pays well. I suppose school is out of the question. But then again, so is normal life.

I’m just going to have to make the most of what I’m stuck with. If that means killing, then I suppose I don’t have much of a choice. If I can find another way, then that works too. Maybe I’ll even find somebody who can cure me. I don’t know. I’ll just have to wait and see.

I’ll figure it out. I’m a survivor. I’m not afraid of the cops, and I’m not afraid of living on my own. I’m not even afraid of The Juice. There really aren’t a lot of things I am afraid of.

Hell.
Right now, I don’t think I’m afraid of anything.