CHAPTER 3
There’s a straightforward way to get from the DC area to Lexington. Get on I-66 and put the hammer down. There’s a dogleg on I-79 and another on I-81 and then you’re on I-64 and Lexington-bound. Most of the time you’re in the hills of West Virginia. Not in my opinion the prettiest state in the world but not bad. Girls tend to be really good looking (when they’re young, they age fast) and it’s got decent scenery. Roadsides are trashy and the whole place has a slightly grimy industrial feel even in the country. But a decent drive.
In this case, with nothing better to do, I decided to take a more “direct” route. At least on paper. This involved lots more time on West Virginia Highway 55 (US 33). (I’d checked, there was no noticeable “Highway 57.” Note the word “noticeable.”)
I left town right from the out-process station and just started driving. It was afternoon and the sun was in my eyes as I headed west. DC traffic was miserable. I decided to stop and spend a little time on happy hour. Not the best choice in the world considering I was still on a light Tylenol 3 prescription—which the docs had said was more or less permanent—but I threw in some food and kept the drinking light. At 1830(ish) I left the bar and grill on the outskirts of DC and tried again. Traffic was lighter. I hooked up with Highway 55 and started wending my way through the hills of West Virginia.
The sun was beginning to fade and was very much in my eyes, when I hit the outskirts of a small town called Elkins. I was coming down into the valley when a moose jumped out in front of my car.
At least, that was what my brain said it had to be. It was the single largest whitetail deer I’d ever seen in my life. And after jumping into the road, it just stood there, looking at me, as if daring me to hit it. “Go ahead. Make my day. I’ll take us both out!” Kamikaze deer.
The drinks had, thank God, worn off a bit and I hit Honeybear’s brakes as hard as I could, swerving to the right to avoid the massive ungulate. I slid off the road (American muscle cars have about zero real control) and into a road sign. The deer snorted as if to say “Pussy!” and ran off.
I took a few deep breaths, adrenaline pumping, limbs shaking, muscles bunched up to really remind me how banged up I still was, and peeked at the front of my car to assess the damage. I’d barely tapped the road sign.
Which read: COUNTY 5/7.
Under it was taped a homemade sign.
“Primitive Baptist Tent Revival! Come one, come all! Isaiah 26:19!”
I couldn’t help it. I just sat there and laughed and laughed for about five minutes, nonstop. Every time I thought I had it under control, I’d stop and look at those fucking signs and start again.
God’s signs tend to be obvious.
“Okay,” I finally wheezed. “Got the message, Pete. But, seriously, a tent revival?”
I put Honeybear back in gear and took the left fork.
I passed through a wooded area by a pretty stream, then into some fields. On the far side of the fields was another wooded area. Just inside the second wooded area I spotted another badly made sign pointing to another left. Sure enough, it also read “Tent Revival.” As I approached the turn, Honeybear just shut off.
“I said, I got it already,” I muttered as Honeybear coasted to a stop right in front of the gravel road. The road went up a slight slope, then over a hill. The tent revival itself was out of view.
I cranked the engine but to no avail. After a bit I could smell she was flooded. Could be anything but I was guessing something in the electrical system. Clearly “The Boss” wished me to humbly walk to this event. Well, limp. Maybe the preacher was supposed to lay on hands or something. Nice part was, the question of “did I just dream that?” was answered. God wants me to limp up that damned road, who am I to argue?
I got out, pulled out my military issue cane, and prepared to limp up the somewhat steep, very uneven road. As I did, a U-Haul van pulled over the hill, drove down to the road and, without stopping or even looking for traffic, made a right-hand turn back the way I’d come and drove away. The driver had brown hair and as he made the turn gave me the oddest look.
The reason I say “the oddest look” is that it was one of those looks you rarely see in a lifetime. It wasn’t curiosity as to why a guy with a cane was standing by his car. It wasn’t wondering “Should I stop?” The best I can do is say it looked the way a farmer might look at a hen that was off her lay. It was a really cold, very…detached look. As if I wasn’t important enough to bother about.
That was when I noticed the screaming. I’d never been to a tent revival but I’d heard about them. There was supposed to be a lot of shouting, not really the way I felt was proper to worship God. I realize this is personal taste and has zero to do with what’s necessary or “right.” The terms are Apollonian versus Bacchanalian. The latter term, despite referencing Bacchus, Greek God of Wine, was not an insult. It was about whether you considered quiet contemplation on the mysteries of God (Apollonian) to be the proper way to worship versus jumping around and screaming “Hallelujah!” at the top of your lungs (Bacchanalian). Both had their place I supposed. I just preferred quiet contemplation.
But I wasn’t hearing much “Hallelujah!” or “Preach it, Brother!” or “Amen!”
This sounded more like screams of terror.
As I was quietly contemplating this development, two young women appeared over the crest of the hill, running like the devil was behind them. They weren’t screaming. They were reserving their breath for putting distance between themselves and whatever was going on over the hill.
“Run!” the one in the lead shouted as they reached the road. She was blonde, in her teens, a touch short, nice bod, definitely top-heavy, dressed conservatively in a simple top, long skirt and no makeup but I got the feeling she normally preferred shorts and a tube top.
I looked down at my cane then back up.
“Possibly,” I replied, calmly. “But not far these days. What’s happening?”
“Zombies!” the trailing one shouted, headed for Honeybear. “Git in the car! Git in the car!” She was a brunette, a bit heftier than her companion. I’m pretty sure she was the remora of the twosome.
I considered the implications of her words as the two girls reached me and frantically bailed into Honeybear, then over the seat and into the back.
“Is it working?” the blonde shouted.
“No,” I said, leaning into the car. “Shortest version possible, please.”
“Travelling preacher,” the blonde said. “He was talking about how in Isaiah it said the dead will walk. We were outside but we could hear it. Then there was a bunch of screaming. Then everybody come running out, screaming. Then the zombies come out the tent. And none of the cars would start except the preacher’s! And he just drove off! And…Shit! Behind you!”
I turned and, sure enough, there was a zombie shambling down the hill. Or at least what looked like a zombie. Its head was flopping as if it was broken and it looked vaguely like it was probably a corpse from a vehicular accident. There were other broken bones and the face was smashed up. It was also naked which wasn’t the way it usually was in movies. I realized, from the still attached toe tag, that that was probably because it had been a medical cadaver or from a morgue.
It was having some problems with the slope, occasionally tripping and falling only to rise again. Which gave me just enough time to adjust. I’d seen enough in Beirut to realize that, yep, this guy, based on the neck angle, was definitely dead. Dead as a post. Should have been pushing daisies. But he wasn’t.
I walked to my trunk, opened it and started rooting around as the zombie closed.
You’d think, what with growing up always wanting to own a gun and my tutelage by Mr. Brentwood, that I’d have a big gun collection. That would have been the case had I not been a Marine private. You see, Marine privates don’t make very much money. Not enough to amass a huge gun collection. So the only firearms I possessed were a 1911 that Mr. Brentwood had given me for my eighteenth birthday and a .30-06 hunting rifle. While in the Corps, I had picked up a .22 conversion kit for the .45 to save money on ammo. Which was how it was currently configured. In a soft case. In one of my civvy bags. Without a magazine in the well. You never knew when you’d run across some state trooper with a hard-on for guns. I did, however, have several loaded magazines and a bunch of spare .22 ammo.
It was one of those moments when the words “Don’t panic” run through your head. I had to do a series of steps in a defined order, quickly but not so quickly as to fail any of the steps. Open the trunk. Open the civvy bag. Open the soft case. Retrieve the weapon. Open the bag with the magazines. Insert one magazine in the well of the weapon. Rack the slide. Take a two-handed grip. Look around the open trunk lid…
Fire one round into the forehead of the zombie at nearly point-blank range.
There was no time to ensure that this wasn’t some elaborate joke. But I really wasn’t bothered. I’d seen the signs. I’d thought God wanted me to attend a tent revival. Maybe another message would be there. The message, pretty clearly, was “Save people from zombies, my son.”
Listening, God.
I learned, later, that zombies tend to be somewhat harder to kill than it is portrayed in the movies. You have to scramble a lot of their brains to get them to drop.
Pro-tip: A .22 rimfire has barely enough power to penetrate a skull at anything other than short range. Once the bullet penetrates it doesn’t bounce around inside like a ping pong ball. It just pokes a hole. If it fragments, it pokes smaller holes in different directions; but poke enough holes in a zombie’s brain and a .22 will do.
However, at the current time I had only five magazines of ten rounds of .22 LR and a box with another two hundred. If I took the time to reconvert to .45, not hard or long, I had an additional three magazines, unloaded. And a .30-06 buried with, if I recalled correctly, seven rounds.
The zombie fell onto the trunk lid and shut it as it slid down the side of Honeybear. Fortunately, I’d dropped the keys back in my pocket. I opened the trunk back up, pulled out the rest of my mags as well as the box of .22 and walked back to the driver’s side door.
“I’ll just be a moment, ladies,” I shouted through the windows. “Lock the doors. Be right back.”
I then proceeded to trot up some competitiveness there the direction of the screaming, weapon pointed down in a two-handed grip. I was going zombie hunting.
It’s amazing how adrenaline can make you completely forget you’re a cripple.
As I crested the hill, I was confronted by another small field. There were a number of cars scattered around—parking in neat lines is a sissified city thing or for Germans—and a large white tent. The undead were mostly gathered around the cars, bashing at the windows, trying to get at the occupants. All of the undead were as naked as the one I’d already shot, and they’d clearly suffered a variety of deaths. Some were apparently unscathed. Some had broken limbs or necks as with the one down on the road. Most had toe tags.
As I watched, one of the windows shattered and a woman was dragged out, screaming. At least a half dozen of the undead descended on her and started ripping her apart. I could see there were more occupants in the car and they were bound to be dragged out next.
“This is gonna be interesting,” I muttered, trotting forward.
I had exactly two advantages in the situation: I had a firearm, which meant slightly more range than arm’s length, and I had the cars. The zombies could clearly reach a fair turn of speed in a straight line. They had a harder time with any sort of maneuvering. Which meant I had to get into and onto the cars and use them to break up the mass. The nearby woods might help as well, assuming that I could outrun the zombies from the cars to the woods. Given my current condition, I wasn’t positive I was more nimble than the zombies.
I put that out of my mind and approached the group which was feasting on the woman. She looked like she was probably a mother. She’d been on the passenger side. I could vaguely see kids in the backseat, huddled on the far side. I wasn’t sure where the dad had gone.
I popped one of the undead in the back of the skull. Zulu down. Shift, pop. Zulu down. Shift, pop. Zulu down.
Now I had their attention.
If I thought about it, I knew I would fail. So I didn’t think about it. I simply leapt onto the trunk of the next car over and ran across the roof. There were more Zulus around the cars, but with moving meat, their attention was shifting. Arms waved at me from almost every direction as I popped Zulus in the fading light. One thing I’d already determined was that getting this over before full dark was sort of a necessity. Fighting these things in the dark wasn’t something I relished.
As the zombies concentrated on getting to me from the driver’s side and back, I made a leap to the next car’s hood. Again, I just assumed it was going to work. I ignored the fact I had a femur made of baling wire and spit and that four months before I had been in traction. I ignored the fact that doctors told me I’d never walk again without a pronounced limp. I, in fact, forgot about all of it in the rush of combat.
Two more leaps and I’d partially broken contact and the Zulus had to maneuver around a couple of cars to get to me. As the first group approached, I took careful, aimed fire and popped skulls. Some of the rounds bounced off. Some of them missed. I waited until the leaders of the group reached the car, backed up onto the roof, checking six, and popped them as they tried to climb up. Again, point-blank range. Pop. Zulu down. Pop. Zulu down.
I’d reloaded, twice, carefully placing the empty mags in my right pocket where my ammo was, and realized that at this rate I was going to run out of loaded magazines before I ran out of Zulus. I dropped off the car, dodged around another to confuse the zombies and darted through the crowd of vehicles looking for…a look is the best way I can describe it.
I found it behind the wheel of a new-model Cadillac. A man with short cropped hair going gray, a stiff back and a look of concentrated fury.
“Can you reload these, please, sir?” I asked, holding up my spent magazines and a boxful of .22 ammunition.
“Sure will, son,” the man said, cracking his window. “Who knew I’d need my guns at a revival!”
“You’re a gift from God, young man,” the woman said. His wife, also going gray, good-looking for an older lady, looked just as competent and just as angry.
“You have no idea, ma’am,” I replied.
The Zulus were closing so I slid up onto the hood and then up to the roof. I knew it was damaging the paint of the well-cared-for vehicle. I also knew the occupants would understand.
More zombies down and it was time to play tag again.
By the time I got back around to the Caddy, the wife just stuck her hand out the window with my refilled mags. I reloaded, handed her my expended and, with most of the Zulus still trying to get to me through the maze of cars, all my remaining .22 ammo.
By my third pass I took just one of the magazines she offered, reloaded, and in the last bit of light, fired three careful rounds into the heads of the last three zombies.
Zombie apocalypse averted. God, fifty-three (once the count had been established) bad guys…too many.
And then the cops finally arrived. And it started to get complicated.
I let Mr. Anderson, the gentleman whose Cadillac I had put boot prints all over, do most of the talking. He was one of the local attorneys and knew all the cops involved. The sheriff arrived and closed the scene down. Wounded were evacuated. People thanked me and called me a gift from God. I told them to thank God, not me. I was just his instrument. This sounded like humility and went over well. I did not get into the whole “there will be a sign” thing. I was questioned by the police. I showed them my discharge papers, ink still fresh. Tow trucks arrived. All the vehicles had somehow been disabled. Mine got added to the group to be towed.
Then the FBI arrived by Bell Jet Ranger.
I’m not sure when (or if) this will be read and how it works in your time. But in those days, the supernatural was super-secret squirrel stuff. FBI Monster Control Bureau should have been renamed the “intimidate witnesses, make up lies and kill anyone who breathes a word” bureau. Later, I was to find out why, and it made sense to an extent. At the time, it was a pain in the ass.
The lead agent was a tall, slender, good-looking guy named Showalter. He was trailed by a gigantic brute named Franks. Franks had pretty much the same expression on his face as the guy who had driven off in the U-Haul. Like everyone he met was a hen that was off her lay and probably needed to be chopped in the neck and put in a pot.
I really would not have been surprised if the guy actually had bayoneted babies. And eaten them spitted over a fire on his bayonet. If they weren’t raw.
I went full-up Marine-perfect. I had the sneaking suspicion I was in deeper shit than when I’d woken up under my desk.
“You’re the shooter,” Showalter said.
“Yes, sir!” I barked, standing at parade rest. I sort of expected congratulations from them but something told me the best I was going to get was “we’re going to let you leave alive.”
“And you just happened to be driving by?” Showalter asked.
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“That doesn’t quite hold water, kid,” Showalter said. “Try it again.”
“Sir, upon medical retirement from the United States Marine Corps due to wounds suffered in the bombing in Beirut, I elected to drive back to my home of record in Lexington, Kentucky, sir!” I barked. “I elected to use side roads as I was attempting to determine what future I might choose given that my prior plans had been to be a career Marine, sir! The time driving gave me time to think, sir! My experiences in the bombing of the barracks in Beirut had led me to consider the world of religion and faith, sir! I have recently converted to Catholicism, sir, having been raised as an atheist, sir! When I saw the sign for the revival, having never attended one, I elected to take the turn, sir!
“My vehicle was disabled at the base of the hill, sir! Two young women ran down the hill seeking aid, sir! They reported zombies, sir! I observed one subject following them which met the parameters for an undead subject, sir! I retrieved my PW from my trunk where it had been carefully stored, readied my PW and terminated the threat, sir! I determined that said subject was, in fact, something resembling a classic movie zombie, sir! I determined that more people required aid, sir! I rendered aid, sir, fulfilling my oath of enlistment to protect against all enemies foreign and domestic, sir! Am I in trouble for terminating the Zulus, sir?”
“Zulus?” Showalter asked.
“Zombies, sir,” I said. “Your pardon, sir.”
“Still not buying it, kid.”
“Sir, God’s hand does sometimes work in mysterious ways,” I said, shrugging. “Sir, that is the truth of the matter, sir.”
I could tell they didn’t believe me. Then there was a voice in my head. Like a real honest-to-God voice. Not Pete’s. Somebody else’s. It sounded like he’d spent time as a Marine drill instructor. The voice barked four words. Nothing more but I knew I was supposed to repeat them. There was also an image to go with the words. For some reason, I looked at Franks.
“One. Drop. Of. Blood,” I said, looking him square in the eye. Which was, frankly, tougher than physical therapy. “One drop of blood on the tip of a sword.”
Franks looked puzzled for a moment, then frowned harder. “We’re done here.”
“Reason?” Showalter asked, surprised.
Franks thought about that for a moment, slowly masticating gum. Apparently he was really the one in charge.
“Classified. This one’s not the threat.”
“Okay, then,” Showalter said, clearly frustrated. He turned back to me. “What are you leaving out?”
Based on Franks’ response, I knew the right answer to give.
“Sir, with due respect, that is classified above your level,” I replied. “You do not have access to that compartment, sir.”
“Does this compartment at least have a name,” Showalter asked, “so I can determine if the compartment exists?”
I thought about that for a moment. A Marine infantry private does not normally get a top secret clearance but I knew something about the way they were set up. Besides compartmentalization, there were different “blocks” or levels of security clearance. The highest was “Block Eight.” Most Presidents don’t get Block Eight clearance. You had to be really, really trusted to get Block Eight clearance. And Eight is as high as it goes.
“The compartment is Block Ten, sir,” I replied.
“There is no Block Ten, Gardenier!” Showalter snapped. “Now I know you’re lying to me!”
“Agent Franks?” I asked.
He just grunted. I didn’t know who Franks thought I really answered to, but he let it go.
“Sir,” I said, relenting slightly. “I was not involved with the individual who let these zombies loose. You have my solemn word on that as a Marine. I truly was just driving home and truly did choose to drive back roads as a way to think about what I was going to do with the rest of my life, sir. All of that is completely and literally true, sir, on my honor as a Marine, sir. The sole and only slight falsehood was my reason for taking the turn on this road, sir. And the reason for that, sir, is classified above your level, sir. It is classified above the President’s level, sir.”
“I happen to know that President Reagan is Block Eight,” Showalter said.
“So you have to wonder what could possibly be higher, sir,” I said. “I can safely say, it is not anything in league with evil, sir.”
“So,” Showalter said, taking a breath. “For reasons classified above my level, according to both you and Agent Franks, you made the turn. Fine. Your car died. Caught in the mystic spell. I can accept that, although the timing is incredibly suspicious. Two girls came running for help, with which they agree. You responded. You’re a recently discharged Marine. I can see that.
“Care to tell me how someone who was just discharged for wounds received in combat that left him crippled and using a cane ran around ‘Like some sort of super-ninja’ according to witnesses, jumping from car to car, dodging zombies and popping them in the head?”
I almost replied, based on the last bit of his question, “I invoked the awesome power of Little Bunny Foo Foo!” but I refrained.
“Adrenaline? Right now, sir, all I want to do is take some painkillers, lie down and get off my damned leg, sir. Then? I just did it, sir. You do what you have to do, sir, and worry about the rest later, sir.”
“And I can believe as much or as little of that as I like,” Showalter said. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a lancet and a vial. “Hold out your hand.”
I extended my hand to him and he lanced a finger and squeezed a drop of blood into the vial.
“Don’t leave town until you are given permission. The easiest way for you to have suddenly developed super abilities instead of being thirty percent disabled is if you are, yourself, a supernatural entity. This test will determine that. If you are not, I’ll accept that the turn was taken for reasons ‘above my clearance level’ and that the rest was just training and adrenaline.
“This incident never happened. The existence of zombies or anything else supernatural is highly classified. Don’t bother to blather about rights. There are none where this is concerned. If you ever discuss this incident with any person not properly cleared, you’re lucky if you just end up in an insane asylum for the rest of your life. If you make too much trouble, Agent Franks or someone similar will shoot you in the head. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”
“Yes, sir!” I barked. “I do understand classified, sir.”
As Showalter was finishing, the sheriff walked over and cleared his throat. “Special Agent, the Hunter team is here,” he said.
“Not those bozos,” Showalter snarled. “The incident is over. Why did you even call them?”
“I’d like to make sure that the area is completely cleared, sir,” the sheriff said. He clearly was not happy doing “diffident.”
“Fine,” Showalter snapped. “But tell them no interaction with the witnesses.”
“Do you have the cover story yet?” the sheriff asked. “There’s press asking questions.”
“The tent caught on fire,” Showalter said. “Seven dead, six injured. Most of the injured aren’t expected to make it.”
“I’ll pass that on,” the sheriff said, drifting back into the night.
“Gardenier,” Showalter said, turning back to me, “don’t talk about this. Ever.”
“Got that, sir,” I said.
“And don’t leave town until cleared.”
* * *
Finally dismissed by the Feds, I stood there alone in the dark at parade rest. The problem was…adrenaline had carried me through the fight. But now I was just locked up. I was not looking forward to the walk back to my car. I hurt from head to toe. I’d just used a lot of muscles I hadn’t used in a long time and the ones I had been using had been severely overtaxed. My right femur felt like someone had driven a stake into it. All the other, many, pins and staples and plates in my body were sending their own notes of sorrow and agony.
I thought about it for what seemed like a long time, then muttered “Fuck it” and just lay down in the grass. It was a warm night. There were some bothersome mosquitoes but nothing compared to the sand fleas at Parris Island, and the patch I’d been standing on was relatively free of blood and zombie gook.
Lying down with no support hurt, but once I was horizontal it was like a wave of euphoria hit as all the pressure came off the various bits. Somebody had apparently cut the field before the disastrous tent revival. The grass was short and in the immediate area still had a fresh-cut smell that almost overwhelmed the smell of death.
At that point I could start to think about the immediate future. I had to get my car fixed. All I really needed to do was figure out what was wrong and I could probably fix it myself if it didn’t require complicated tools. All the cars had been shut down by something—magic?—so most of the damage should probably be the same. Once some other mechanic figured it out, I could probably fix it.
You might be wondering about my easy acceptance of what had just happened. I’ve met, over the years, thousands of survivors of these sorts of things and plenty of Hunters whose first experience of the supernatural was just as “out of the blue.”
I was raised by parents who firmly believed that while the supernatural, including any reference to a deity, might be anthropologically interesting, all those crazy stories from those superstitious idiots dating from the dawn of time were absolutely and unquestionably impossible.
First, I’d already determined that just about anything my parents believed was probably idiotic. So rebelling by believing in the supernatural, including God, was an easy step for me.
Second, I’d had a conversation with a saint while dead. While this had been a questionable item prior to today, the literal sign that had led me here was pretty damned obvious. Thus, I was pre-prepared to handle this with relatively little disbelief. I also learned, early, to just take life as it’s thrown at you and do the best you can with the hand you’re dealt. Which meant, at that moment, considering the hand and figuring out how to deal with it.
The Feds had told me to not leave town. So I needed a place to stay. Before the bombing, I’d have just planned on staying in the car. Front seat was comfortable enough. Slept in it (and more than slept) plenty of times. But that was before I had pins and plates through half my body. I’d sort of gotten used to having a bed. Frankly, where I was at the moment was more comfortable than the car. I slapped a mosquito. Except for the occasional bug. So…could I find some kind person to get me some Off…?
“Think we got one over here,” a voice said.
“If you shoot me, it will seriously piss me off,” I replied.
Lights approached in the dark and were shined on me. They were kind enough to mostly keep them out of my face.
“Any particular reason you’re lying on the ground after a zombie attack?” a voice said, sounding mildly amused.
“I’m beat to hell? I feel like pounded meat? I just got out of Bethesda? My cane was with my car which got towed? I’m not sure I could have walked back to my car and I don’t even know if this town has a hotel? It’s a warm night and the grass is soft?”
“You’re the guy who killed all the zombies?” the voice asked.
“I can neither confirm nor deny.”
“We already got the story, kid,” the voice said. “What do you mean you just got out of Bethesda?”
“I was in the bombing in Beirut,” I said, pulling back my T-shirt sleeve. The surgery on my upper right humerus was an easily viewable scar. “I fucking got discharged, thirty percent disabled, today. As in…” I looked at my watch. Amazingly, it was still only a bit past 2230. “…about seven hours ago. After six months of traction and physical tyranny.”
“And you bagged fifty-three shamblers with a .22-converted 1911?” the voice asked.
“And stole our PUFF bounty,” another voice said, a bit more aggrieved.
“I can neither confirm nor deny,” I said, then paused. “What bounty?”
“Feds pay us to kill stuff like this,” the first voice said. “We drove all the way from Hazelton just to find out they were already dead. Again.”
“Waste of fricking time and gas,” the aggrieved voice said.
“Tell you what, we’ll file the paperwork for a share,” the first voice said. “On your behalf. But our company gets twenty percent.”
“Done,” I said, too tired to argue. Then thought about it. “On one condition.”
“Which is?”
“Give me a hand up and a ride to a motel?”
“Hell, kid, I’ll do that and give you a business card. We’re always hiring.”
And that was how I was introduced to Monster Hunter International.