by Michael Todd
She stood, strode to the bar, and eased through the crowd until she saw three rows of shot glasses spread across the bar top. Two of the bartenders took their time to fill each one carefully with crystal clear vodka.
A quick count confirmed that there were twenty-one glasses in each of the rows. That seemed like an oddly specific number and actually sounded familiar when she considered it.
“Okay,” the bartender said when the glasses were full, “the rules of the game are, you have to at least tie the bar record. There’s no throwing in the towel, no eating, and no more than a minute between shots. You walk away, you lose. The last man standing doesn’t have to pay the bill. Got it?”
Three men—large, powerful-looking soldiers Madigan didn’t recognize—nodded firmly. They looked as if they’d prepared themselves for exactly this event. In all probability, they’d stocked up on carbs all day.
It was an idiotic thing to think of but at least, with people guzzling down this much vodka, she didn’t have to worry about the demand for the stuff they brought in from the Russian base drying up. It had been something of a hit among the various patrons, and while it wasn’t their main moneymaker these days, it was at least nice to have some pocket cash from this. The real bonus, however, was that it solidified their connection with the people in the Staging Area even after they’d moved out.
She smiled and leaned on the bar as she watched the three men take their first glasses, and with a roar of confidence, down them in a single gulp.
Their assurance had noticeably flagged by the time they were about halfway down the line and all of them struggled to stay on their feet. She could stand against virtually anyone in a drinking contest and had been known to drink men almost twice her size under the table in her day. But she’d tried to get a grip on her drinking over the past couple of months. She had more responsibilities now as a founding member of a surprisingly successful freelancing start-up. The days were long gone when she could spend her days nursing a bottle.
Back on topic, though, she’d seen Sal this hammered, but by then, he’d reached twenty-one. As the idiots plowed on with real determination, they reached levels of intoxication that would have them sent home in a cab from any bar in the States. But this was the Zoo, where people intentionally put their lives on the line for money. So long as they coughed the money up, the bartenders simply continued to pour.
The first man caved to the inevitable at twelve. He didn’t actually drink that one as he dropped the glass onto the floor. Amidst shouts of encouragement, he bent to pick it up again and simply didn’t come up.
“Lightweight!” Various bar patrons jeered and the other two contestants stared vaguely at one another as they swayed in place. They obviously had a hard time even with such simple concepts as gravity by this point. Still, they persevered with little apparent concern for the damage they did to their livers. The shots left by the first man were handed out free to whichever patrons snatched them first and would still be charged to the losers of the bet. That was merely how these things played out.
By the time the diehards reached seventeen, Madigan actually felt rather impressed. These men were some solid drinkers, and she doubted that she could match them. Thankfully, hers wasn’t the record to beat. She still wasn’t sure how taking daily doses of some blue goop from a flower helped someone drink more without getting drunk. Admittedly, Sal had explained it to her. It had something to do with improving the liver’s ability to metabolize the alcohol, which simply meant that it constantly filtered the stuff out, even while you continued to drink it.
There were limits, of course. Sal had gotten drunk himself that night and woken up as hungover as the rest of them. Still, it was impressive. People had died of alcohol poisoning after drinking twenty-one shots. All he’d faced was dehydration and a headache.
Seventeen shots were downed, and the two men teetered and swayed alarmingly. One fumbled to grab a glass and raised it for everyone to see.
“Ain’t…nothing but a…peesh of…pie…” he declared in an odd, disjointed toast, but his eyes rolled to the back of his head as he toppled backward and spilled the shot on the dusty floor to more jeers from the crowd.
“Middleweight!” they called, delighted, as the bartender turned to the last man standing.
“It’s up to you now, Hardy,” he said. “Will you let some scientist geek outdrink you?”
“Hell…naw,” Hardy replied and quickly tossed his eighteenth down the hatch. He made to follow with number nineteen too, although his movements were slow and disjointed, but as he raised it to his mouth, his grip slipped. Most of the vodka sloshed down his chest and neck before it even reached his mouth and he ended up with less than a quarter of the shot left to drink.
“Well, I’m sad to say, that doesn’t count as a shot,” the bartender said with a grin. He clearly enjoyed the entire spectacle. “And since it’s been more than a minute since your last one, I’m afraid I’ll have to call it here, folks. Eighteen and a half is very impressive but unfortunately, no cigar.”
“You have cigars?” the man asked and stared at the bartender with a dumb expression on his face.
“Get yourself home, Hardy. You’ve done a man’s work in here today,” the other man said and slapped Hardy on the back.
He nodded and shuffled away from the bar. He was the last man standing and the bill would be paid out of the pockets of the two men who currently slept it off on the floor. Kennedy smirked and shook her head as she moved away and managed to easily avoid the drunk as he missed the door a couple of times. The rest of the patrons had already gone back to their drinks, disappointed that nobody could break Sal’s record.
Hardy missed the door yet again and instead, crashed into the wall. A big fellow, he made enough of an impact to knock some of the pictures off, one of which landed on him. He didn’t seem to feel it, though, as he’d already passed out to sleep it off like his defeated comrades.
The bartender chuckled and turned to the remaining shot glasses that were passed around to the rest of the patrons. He saw Madigan and joined her as she took one of the offered glasses.
“Well, your boy toy holds the record around here for another day,” he said with a wide grin. “I still can’t believe that a guy like him holds anything like that in a bar that is so heavily frequented by soldiers. I mean, you’d think one or two of them would have enough of a habit to be able to beat that, right?”
“I don’t know, James,” she responded and paused to snatch another of the leftover shot glasses and down it expertly. Damn, if that wasn’t some fine vodka. “Sal has all kinds of ways to surprise us.”
“No questions about that,” he replied with a laugh. “So, what can I get you? It’s been a while since you’ve frequented our little establishment.”
“Sorry, James.” She stood with a smirk. “I’ve just realized that I need to satisfy another urge—one that has less to do with drinking myself into an early grave. I’ll see you around.”
Two shots weren’t enough to get her drunk and Amanda would be proud of the fact that she kept the Hammerhead at a reasonable speed all the way back to the Heavy Metal compound. It meant extending the length of the trip by about an hour and a half, but it wasn’t really something that she would complain about. She wasn’t a fan of delaying gratification, but it wasn’t a bad thing either.
By the time she got back, the place was deserted as everyone had already turned in for the night. Well, except Anja who cursed softly in Russian, still hard at work in the server room. The woman was dedicated, Madigan had to give her that, and any other night, she might have gone to see if she needed some company. Not tonight, though.
She made her way to Sal’s rooms and slipped inside without a sound. The guy made it a point to trust his people and left his door unlocked, even when he was sleeping. It wasn’t as stupid as one might think, considering that everything important, including his laptop, was locked away in an airtight safe every night.
He was trusting, not
stupid.
Madigan eased out of her shirt and pants to leave only her panties and bra on before she slid into bed with him. He’d gone to sleep immediately after his shower, as evidenced by the fact that he wore nothing but a towel as he lay on his bed. She took a moment to enjoy the sight of him. He had put on an impressive amount of muscle during his stay in the Zoo and was on the verge of becoming something of a beefcake. It was a lean kind of muscle but she didn’t much care for body-builder types—something else she could lay at the feet of a certain Austrian android.
She nudged him gently in the shoulder, and when he failed to wake up, she gripped the same shoulder and shook him until he spluttered. His eyes opened and he looked around to find the source of his discomfort until his gaze settled on her.
“Madigan,” he murmured and rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”
“Half past nine, you old fart,” she said with a giggle and leaned in to press a kiss to his chest. “Why are you in bed so early anyway?”
“It was a long day, what with helping Amanda dig the fucking place up,” Sal replied. He smiled as he moved his hands to run through her hair. “What are you doing in my bed so early?”
“I need those five Os you promised me,” she said and slid over him to straddle his waist. “Do you feel up for it? Pun intended.”
“I think I do.” The drowsiness of the newly awoken began to fade as his hands settled on her waist and her hips ground over him. “It looks like morning wood has come earlier than expected tonight.”
“I’ll make sure to treat it well,” she promised, her tone a little husky. “Does it take milk and cookies, like Santa?”
“That’s a weird topic to bring up when you’re trying to talk a sleepy man into sex,” he said with a mock-serious expression. “But I’ll allow it.”
She grinned, undid her bra, and let it fall onto his stomach as she leaned over him to enjoy the simple pleasure of having someone whom she trusted and liked this close to her. He hummed appreciatively when she pressed a firm, delicious kiss to his lips.
Chapter Ten
Anderson rubbed his temples and dragged himself out of the miserable cot that he’d called a bed for the past few months. He shuffled to the bathroom and his jaw felt like it would split as a massive yawn overtook him. It had been a long time since he’d woken up with a hangover. There had been times, especially early in his boot camp days, where he’d ended up drinking more than enough to make anyone think about their problematic life choices. At this point in his life, however, he did that anyway. He might as well add alcohol to the mix to help dull everything for a few hours.
Was it worth feeling and looking like shit? It was a thought that greeted him abruptly as he stood in front of the mirror and filled a small plastic cup with water. He hated his job, so there wasn’t much to worry about regarding his looks. That aside, he already had enough problems to deal with and drinking would only make them worse.
“Never…again,” Anderson promised himself as he opened the mirror door, withdrew a couple of pill bottles from inside, and popped them open. His hand shook a little as he tipped out one of each on his hand before he closed the containers and replaced them in the cabinet. He leaned his head back, tossed both into his mouth, and washed them down with the water.
It occurred to him that he didn’t believe the affirmation he’d spoken. They said that recovering addicts needed a support structure if they were to make it through recovery, and he had nothing like that out in the middle of the fucking Sahara Desert. He would get back on track with his goals when he got home. Perhaps he could find a sponsor and a therapist and see about adding vigor to his treatment, maybe take some time off work to focus solely on getting better.
When he got back home. As of right now, he needed as much help as he could get to cope with his day to day struggle. And it would be worse from here on out. He’d received the message last night. That had been what prompted him to crack open the bottle of scotch he’d bought his last time at the bar, and…yes, there it was, empty in the trash. He didn’t remember much about the night before, but he knew that he would, on occasion, get drunk enough to be aware of the problems that he faced. At other times, he would simply dump the rest of the liquor down the drain as a promise to himself.
One way or another, he wouldn’t have much access to alcohol for the next few weeks. If that wasn’t a support structure, he didn’t know what was.
He dragged his errant thoughts back to reality—in this case, the message that pushed him to drink in the first place. It had been something of a surprise—the timing rather than the inevitability of it. He knew it was coming. It was merely a question of when.
The message had read, New testing green-lit. Operators and engineers returning to base tomorrow to start testing new suits.
Tomorrow was now today, unfortunately, and he was hungover and felt like shit at the start of it. At least that would cover how he would feel as the testing proceeded.
He smirked and shook his head as he moved back into his room to pull on a clean uniform that his assistant had left out for him while he was passed out. With a smile at his own foolishness, he completed every small task as slowly as he could in an effort to delay the moment when he would have to leave the cool comforts of his tiny little room.
The colonel stepped outside and shielded his eyes against the glare. This early in the morning, it was still way too bright to be comfortable, even if he wasn’t hungover. The wall construction had moved past them and left their little section sandwiched between Walls One and Two and completely isolated from the rest of the world, which made it ideal for the black ops and illegal testing of new equipment.
The one advantage of having a base directly beside a massive fifty-foot wall was that it provided some outdoor shade to hide them from the horrors that would come when the sun began its inexorable climb and slow-baked everything.
Anderson made his way quickly to the shady part of the base as his assistant—a new one whom he still couldn’t put a name to—hurried over to him.
“Good morning, sir,” the young lieutenant said and proffered a mug of steaming coffee.
“Morning, Lieutenant,” he responded. Working for the military meant one didn’t need to remember names if you could read insignias. There were, after all, some small mercies.
“The first load of suits has arrived on schedule, along with the rest of the engineers,” the younger man said and fell smoothly into step beside him.
Another twenty paces and then shade. Keep it together, Anderson.
“How do the troops look?” he asked, mainly because he lacked anything else to say.
“They’re excited to be back at work, sir,” the man stated cheerfully and sounded rather glad to be back on duty as well. “Vacations are nice, but when you love your job, there’s not much that’ll keep you away from it.”
If only. Fortunately, Anderson had the good sense not to say it aloud.
“Colonel Anderson,” a familiar voice called. He turned quickly and paused as the scientist strode over to him.
“Dr. Bial, nice to see you again.” He offered the first genuine smile that he’d felt in weeks. “Nice to have you back.” Bial was one of the only men assigned to this damned base that Anderson actually liked talking to. It was odd, since he usually only felt that kind of bond with military men. Still, with as long as they had worked together, Anderson was more than willing to give the man that honorary title.
“It’s good to be back,” the scientist said with a chuckle as both of them settled under the shade of the wall. “Too much time spent away from our little project has only helped me feel more and more anxious to get back to it. How have things been around here?”
“Quiet,” he replied honestly. It had essentially been a ghost town while everyone had been gone. Amazingly, that hadn’t made anything better—not for him, anyway. Still, it had given him time to plot and work against his current employers.
“So,” the colonel said after a sip of h
is coffee, “what is it about this armor that has people running in three weeks early to set it up for combat?”
“Well, they finished the design and built the prototypes,” Bial said, clearly happy to be in a place and with people whom he could talk to about this without having all kinds of legal hell rain down on him. “They want the teams to wear and test a new type of armor.”
Anderson narrowed his eyes and watched as the engineers set the various pieces up before they moved them to a storage location. “They look different. Sleeker designs, which look nice, but how does that make them more useful? This isn’t Hollywood.”
“Obviously,” Bial said. He rolled his eyes and patted what looked like a small external hard drive that lay amongst the mess strewn on one of the tables. “Well, I’ve only looked at the specs a couple of times and I don’t know all the details yet, but there’s an exciting new IP in the metal that the company making the suits designed themselves from their own research and development sections. The designs aren’t perfect since the engineers in a lab can’t really account for all the variables that we’d see out here in the field. That’s why I prefer to do my work out here.”
“So you can nitpick the work of others once it’s already done?” the colonel asked and turned to look at the man with a small smirk.
“Quite,” his companion replied and would have continued if a loud hiss hadn’t interrupted him. They both looked to where the suits were being assembled. The engineers rushed away from a boot that flickered and jerked on the ground. After a few seconds, something ignited and what looked like a rocket fired, while the piece of armor catapulted away in the opposite direction. The engineers laughed as they raced after it.
“There will always be a few bugs.” Bial shrugged. “If you’ll excuse me, Colonel?”
“By all means,” he said with a smile, and the scientist rushed off to join his colleagues in the mad scramble to retrieve the errant boot. Anderson, for his own part, looked furtively around. It wasn’t difficult to see that there weren’t any cameras built into the base—the idea was complete discretion—and all eyes seemed to be focused on the recovery of the piece of tech that had flown away.