I’d woken up around three that afternoon with a massive headache. I wanted nothing less than absolute quiet as I attempted to pull my head up from the couch. I had to be slow and careful getting up, lest I make noise and send my brain into a spiral of pain. I eased my stiff and sore body over the edge of the couch until my feet were near the floor. I didn’t dare open my eyes. My eggshell skull barely contained my rattled brain.

Had I thought about it, I would have remembered the floor was covered with cans and bottles. My feet hitting the ground sounded like a garbage truck dumping its load. I screamed, eyes shooting open. I was dead center in a room of pain.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Somehow I made it to the bathroom, where I swallowed any pills that gave promise of relief, and then sat on the toilet until it was dark again. I drank the remains of a beer I found on the floor next to the shower and after a while I started to feel better.

I threw up. Felt even better.

I walked into the kitchen and grabbed what was left in the Mr. Coffee and drank it straight from the pot, realizing too late that I hadn’t made coffee since I’d arrived. With my last gulp, I felt something solid slide down my throat.

I needed some time to recover. It had only been a few days since the werewolf debacle and I was still suffering badly. Half of my stitches had gotten infected. The wounds throbbed constantly, no matter what I put on them or how they were dressed.

Some downtime was just what the doctor ordered. But my life just never seems to work that way. Things were about to get back to the bizarre.

Outside the house, someone was leaning on their car horn. I tried to ignore it. I laid back down and covered my head with a pillow, but nothing would make that fucking sound stop. Finally, I grabbed the .45 and marched out the front door, ready to shoot the person in the car right through the fucking eye.

But it wasn’t a person, and it wasn’t a car. It was a U-Haul truck with a ghoul driver. I knew him. It was Mo’Lock.

A wide smile spread across my face. I couldn’t help it. I put the gun away and walked toward the curb as he climbed out of the truck’s cab.

“What the hell are you doing, you crazy fucking ghoul?!”

Mo’Lock grabbed me by my shoulders. The corners of his mouth curled ever so slightly, which for the undead was a sign of almost total joy.

“I got your message,” Mo’Lock said. “From Simon. I packed your stuff and drove out here as fast as I could.”

I ignored him and pointed at the U-Haul. “That’s my stuff?”

“Everything you left behind.”