He was alive, and he was drunk, the makings of a good stable buzz to get him through the day. Dor sipped his coffee. It had a bit too much Jameson to be tasty and Folgers was always shit, but it started his day off right. He leaned against the counter-top in the restaurant’s big kitchen, sipped his coffee, and stared at his car, the 80’s Trans-Am that got spoiled with being an inside car nowadays.

Back when the vanishings occurred all over the city, it really hit the fan. Mobs flooded the police station, a few there to file missing persons reports but most simply wanted to vent. For the first time in the city of Colinbach’s history, the cops closed their doors. Faced with the decision to shoot thousands of violent hooligans, they picked the lesser evil and shrugged their duty for the night.

That was also the same night Dor stole a chainsaw and cut a hole in the kitchen wall. No one noticed. With the chaos downtown, the brattle and whine of a full-throttle two-stroke fit right in. Could be that even the hooligans didn’t want any trouble with a chainsaw-wielding maniac, that crazy dude with a mullet cutting down a wall. Everyone let Dor be, just how he liked to live.

After seeing the carnage downtown the next day, he knew he made the right decision. In the parking lot outside, Lulu’s Grand Prix had all its windows smashed in. Jimmy’s Prius sat on four flats, uninspired graffiti painted across the hood, and Claire’s scooter was nowhere to be found, only a snapped padlock hung from the pole she’d parked it against. However, Dor’s Trans-Am was safe. To get through the night, he shoved the industrial counters and stove-tops out of the way and crammed his car inside the building.

It wouldn’t have taken much effort if anyone truly wanted to get at his car. All he could do right then was loosely nail the chunk of the wall he cut out back in place after wheeling his car inside. Since that night, he’d hinged a proper garage door over the cut-out, a couple of sheets of plywood bolted to a pair of reclaimed barn hinges. At least, it was normal by Rose Valley Park standards, his old man’s neck of the woods.

Today, for the first time since the start of their mini-apocalypse, Dor contemplated taking his car on a drive. He was no mechanic, but he knew four-barrel carburetors did not do well sitting idle. With all the time on his hands, he even contemplated trying to take it apart and clean it out, though he figured he’d just muck it up worse. However, the carburetor was not his real concern. Really, he needed his Dad.

He’d met with Dad and Uncle Ron downtown a few times to hang posters. They kept in touch with e-mail since Dor didn’t own a cell phone, something they gave him plenty of grief over. What’s the point? The only number I’d need is Lulu’s. A moot point, now. Without her around, his life was completely lost. She’d always been his best friend, working so hard to drag him away from his hermit holes and integrate him into society. Nowadays, Dor was the epitome of a hermit, but, despite that, he really needed to see his dad today.

That monster upstairs, it made so much more sense to keep her a secret, protect his family, but that only made sense in theory. In reality, he’d nearly blown his brains out yesterday. He was scared and he was pathetic and he really needed his dad right now.

That kid said the monster could read. Dor hoped that was true; the kid was right about her eating with her tail, that added little credibility. Hopefully, he was right about her literacy, too. Instead of petting the centipede today, Dor stuck to his old routine. To feed her this morning, he'd reached over as far as he could and dumped the treats on the bed, nearly hyperventilating himself to death in the process. The stars shone across her cold black eyes, but she didn’t twitch. She left him be, exactly how Dor liked to live. Before he ran out the door, he slipped a note onto the bed.

‘Be back later. Don’t wander around; people are cruel outside.’

Words still caught in his throat every time he tried to speak to her. A note was a good compromise; maybe she’d even follow his advice? Dor hedged his bets and unbarred the garage door. Bright morning light blinded him as he pushed the plywood open, propping it back with a couple of trashcans. A bout of the spins hit and he hunched over. Being drunk in the A.M. always spun his head a little extra, like the early sun reminded his brain this wasn’t normal. Holed up drunk inside was okay, but outside, it just felt wrong.

He recovered and zagged back indoors, grabbing his spiked coffee on the way. After a quick pat-down of his pockets, he confirmed everything was in order: wallet, keys, Glock, and Sargent Berry’s Stripes. Now, Sargent Berry had been his friend for a long time. Dor reached in and dug his friend out of his jean jacket, a flask his old man gave him a long time ago. ‘Sargent Berry’s Stripes’ was engraved into the front in big cartoonish lettering.

He might have been fourteen when his old man caught him sneaking a half-gallon of Bartons from the pantry. Dor and Skids were meeting a couple of gals out at the sandpit. The plan was to ride Uncle Ron’s old Yamaha down there and impress the chicks with some tricks and use the only pick-up line Dor had ever learned “You wanna do some shots?”

Drinking was the only way to impress the older gals around Rose Valley with his ‘maturity’, and it would have worked, too, except his old man caught him sneaking away with the Bartons. Dad didn’t get mad and Dor didn’t get a lecture, at least a real one. Dad fished that flask out of his own pocket and tossed it to Dor, saying he could only take what would fit in there, roughly a traveler’s worth.

Later on, Dor only ended up with a mild buzz and a bad case of blue balls. Apparently, Cinda wasn’t impressed enough with his maturity to round third base. Though in hindsight, it all worked out for the better. Turned out, Cinda had a bad case of something Dor was better off not catching. And he and Skids had a blast tearing through the sandpit on the Yamaha. Sometimes, moderation was best, at least that was the lesson he took from his old man that day.

‘Sargent Berry’s Stripes’ hadn’t left his side since then, and the Glock hadn’t since the start of their mini-apocalypse. With everything in order, he crawled into his car Bo Duke style. The kitchen was too cramped to open the door so he crawled in through the open T-Tops. He scooted over and prayed that disconnecting the battery terminals for these last few months had kept his battery alive.

Whamp. Whamp. Whamp. It cranked, but barely. He pumped the accelerator and tried again, more wamps. Pump, pump, pump. Wamp. Wamp. Pump, pump, pump, Wamp. Wamp. Bang! A massive backfire and the car roared to life. Fuck! No doubt the noise startled the monster upstairs and he didn’t want to face her wrath. He revved the engine and roasted the tires right on the kitchen linoleum. The car screeched through the opening and sped outside, but he wasn’t safe yet; no way he could leave a gaping hole in the house while he was away, and the only way to bar the door was from the inside.

He had to go back in.

After flying down the mini car ramp leading to the kitchen, the car slammed down onto the parking lot and before it settled down, Dor locked up the hand brake and raced outside, running back to swing the garage closed before the monster could react. At least, he hoped before she could react. He swung the door shut, barred himself inside the kitchen, and turned to leave through the dining room, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught a tall bundling wrapped up tight. At the bottom of the stairs, a Donnie Darko comforter stood like a child playing ghost for Halloweeen. He even saw both her jet black eyes peeking out this time, eyes wide and staring daggers right at him.

He panicked. Grabbing closest item on the counter, Dor threw a spatula at her and ran away without checking to see if it even hit. He ran out the front door and retreated to the dizzying safety of the morning sun. He didn’t even bother with locking that door, just slammed it shut and sprinted to his car. The Trans-Am roared as it peeled away. Normally, he’d ease his tires over the potholes in the alley leading out of the parking lot. Today, his car rattled and bounced over them as he lurched out of the alleyway and onto the four-lane tarmac of 31st street.

Downtown, tall buildings with smashed windows lined either side of the road. Beggars and hooligans shuffled down the sidewalk, and missing persons posters covered the storefronts like scales. At those sights, Dor knew he was finally safe. He’d escaped the monster.

Sargent Berry sat on his lap and those two made sweet love as they drove away, far more buzzed than he should have been.

As he raced down the road, a crowd of hooligans gathered. They might have been looking for trouble or they might have simply been crossing the street. Dor didn’t care either way. He suckled Sargent Berry, mashed the accelerator, and roared right past them. They flung beer bottles and hollered obscenities, but that didn’t matter since Dor was safe. He’d been on edge for so long, walking on eggshells around his own house that the lack of real stress felt like relief.

This feels great! I should get out more often. Wonder if Angel misses me?

He hoped Angel missed him. Dor had plenty of money burning a hole in his pocket, might be, things had settled down enough it’d even be able to spend. Suspiciously enough, not FEMA nor the National Guard ever appeared to reign the city back under control. Apparently, their city had been the only one affected by the apparent isolated rapture. Everywhere else went on with their lives, completely ignoring Colinbach’s plight. Dor knew this for a fact. Even more suspiciously, the internet never went down even once. Extra bizarre since he hadn’t paid any bills these last two months. Not like money could be spent at the start of the panic anyways. Everyone simply stole what they needed, and his home downtown was in the heart of the chaos.

Rose Valley Park was much safer. Actually, anywhere was safer than his home. A sudden thought struck him. Does anyone else have a monster living in their attic? He’d been too wrapped up in his own bubble to even consider that possibility before. He’d innately assumed he was the only one walking on eggshells as bizarre as his situation was.

Best not to think about it. Sargent Berry’s gave the best road head, and he’d wine and dine that bitch the rest of his life if he needed to. It was always best not to think too deeply into those matters.

God help any hooligans in my way. I’m coming home, Dad.