ecstasy | corpse husband

chapter 41.

before

Hudson felt as though his eyeballs were going to fry right in their sockets.

Lifting a weak arm to shade the blaring sun, he takes tumbling steps to crawl his way out of the air duct at the back of the police station, plunging him into a parking yard fenced with concrete walls and metal wire gates. It isn't even all that bright—from the sun's placement in the sky he presumes it's only dawn—but god, if his vision isn't spotty from it. Four days. Four days he spent in the total darkness of that wretched holding cell. This feels worse than walking outside with a raging hangover.

The only thing worse is the bone-dry feel of his throat making it impossible for him to so much as swallow. If he doesn't get something to drink in the next minute, he may just collapse here on the concrete anyway. And it will all have been for nothing.

Elbows scraping on the blacktop, he hangs his head toward the ground with his hands fisted beneath him. Who is he kidding? It already was all for nothing. Everyone died.

He couldn't save anyone. Not one person. He made it his duty to make sure he didn't walk out of there until he saved as many as he could and has nothing to show for it. Pathetic. Not even Kora could he spare; her death was the most brutal of all. It was like he was being mocked by those things.

And his sister. He wasn't even the one to get her out. She was taken away from him. There's no way of knowing where she is now, days later. For all he knows, she's as good as dead, left in the hands of Godfrey. The mere thought of that fuckup makes him grind his teeth, nostrils flaring. He left him to rot in there.

What did he do to deserve that?

"Damn it!" He cries out, vocal chords grating painfully but it's nothing compared to the physical ache spread throughout his body. The back of his shoulder throbs, the bite wound there probably festering, and malnourishment has made it too difficult for him to even stand. He's never felt so weak, not in a long time. He trained vigorously for over a year to never feel that useless ever again.

Look at him now.

Never did he think that he would be here, on all fours and licking the asphalt at the bottom of a puddle.

The faint sun abruptly disappears, his shadow slipping away within a blink, as clouds overcast the sky. He knuckles at his eyes that are finally somewhat adapting to the morning light and sits on his knees, head already spinning, and he would puke if his stomach wasn't so empty. That would only make things worse, though; the last thing he needs is acid coming up his throat along with the only bit of liquid in his body.

Hudson uses the police car beside him as leverage to get himself to his feet, the joints of each of his limbs groaning in protest, and pulls the door handle but it doesn't budge. He hobbles around the lot, trying every door until one of them gives, but finds something even better—one of them has the door left open in a haste. The key is still in the ignition.

The needle on the gas gauge is in the middle, but when he tries revving the engine it only sputters and dies out a second later. Which he expected. It must have been left running indefinitely. While he's in here, he hits the button to unlock the trunk and heads to the back of the car.

The first thing he sees is a semi-automatic long gun, makes a mental note to take that with. Before that, though, he takes out a bulletproof vest labeled POLICE in white block letters, fitting it onto his torso beneath his leather jacket. He isn't sure what he's up against anymore but he'll be damned if he dies out there to a fucking bullet wound.

Besides, he likes the feel of it, the bulk of the armor plate against his chest. It makes him feel stronger. And hell if he hasn't always had a thing for being in uniform.