[h1][color=ed1c24]Joseph Ferrier[/color][/h1]

	I stormed down the street. One of the spooks got too close, so I slowed down, just enough to sling a kick at its knee. I felt the crack as the kneecap broke the into the connecting bones beneath. My stomach jumped. [i]Stay on target. Just stay on target. You're almost there.[/i]

	And I was. My apartment was less than a block away. But those things kept a steady pace behind me. They were making a lot of noise. I twisted my sleeve at the bicep, using the tough leather to cut off circulation to my right arm, like a tourniquet. I guess, all in all, I was lucky it broke further up the forearm. Any lower, and the break would risk slicing my brachial artery. Like I said earlier, [i]Red equals dead.[/i]

	I could see the street sign. There was red on the green, obscuring the name of the streets, but I knew this city fairly well. And my building was now in view. 

	Hands erupted from the bushes growing along the complex's chainlink fence as I passed, and a moaning face followed. I threw all my weight behind my shoulder, slamming it back in as I sprinted, laughing in spite of my pain at the [i]rattle[/i] when it hit the fence. 

	[i]The door! My code![/i] For a moment, I actually forgot it. Then, in a flash: [i]5-2-3-8! 5-2-3-8![/i] I released my jacket sleeve, fresh blood gushing down my arm onto my shirt, to punch in the combination. I didn't see the blood in the lobby until I slammed the door.

	It was covered in it. The white couch was now red. The shitty plastic plant dripped into its clay pot, moisture and nutrients it neither needed nor would benefit from. One of the elevator buttons glowed a streetlamp-orange, the other a savage red. 

	Naturally, the bloody button was the one I needed. I let go of my sleeve again, to clumsily draw my weapon and fumble with the safety. [i]Thank god it's ambidextrous.[/i] The elevator [i]ding[/i]ed to life, and I brought up my pistol as the doors opened. Surprisingly, in fact, the only good surprise I'd had all day, the inside was clean. Nothing on the floor but dust. I squeezed my sleeve again, and slapped the button marked '3' with my elbow. The mechanisms [i]whirr[/i]ed to life, and sent me up.

	The doors [i]ding[/i]ed open on my floor. I was ready, weapon pointing straight down the hall. I could hear someone crying in another room as I passed, room fourteen, I believe. My place was just next door. My keys were slippery with blood that had oozed into my pocket while I ran. It was hard to identify the right one. 

	My apartment was exactly as I'd left it: a mess. Empty takeout and pizza boxes were stacked up next to the garbage can, papers littered my kitchen table, but I only needed one thing to be where I'd left it.

	My liquor cabinet was locked, and I didn't feel like getting the key. So I slammed my elbow into the glass. [i]Fuck it. Can't stay here anyway.[/i] A bottle of Silverback Gin was calling my name. [i]Pop[/i] went the cork. I filled up a spare flask, struggling a bit at first with cap, and then sucked some from the bottle. I drank deep, the piney burn filling my throat and nostrils and silencing the shrieking pain of my arm so I could finally think.

	I needed a car. That was first. Luckily, I could choose from anything in the parking lot. I could hotwire just about anything in an emergency, and this certainly qualified. I doubted anyone would still look at it like a crime.

	[i]First thing's first, though. Gotta set the bone. Stop the bleeding. Oh fuck.[/i] The bone was offset only slightly, a hairline fracture becoming a-

	"Ow! God-DAMN!"

	-a hairline fracture becoming a short break. Easy to set again, even though it would suck. 

	I walked into the bathroom, leaving a little blood trail behind me as I went. I needed the first aid kit, under the sink. I took it into the kitchen and swung across the table, throwing case notes, files, and bills onto the floor. I grabbed the roll of paper towels I'd lost under the mountain two months previous, and bit into the dry, fluffy paper. I pressed my arm down onto the table, teeth digging into the towels, and used my other hand to push the bone back together. The arm [i]squelch[/i]ed and gushed more blood, and my vision swam and my stomach lurched. The bones scraped as it slid back into place. I still think about that feeling when I'm trying to sleep.

	Thank god for Silverback Distillery. Without their excellent and tasteful Strange Monkey gin, I would not be the same man today. 

	I wrapped gauze around the wound, tears streaming down my face, and took another swig. I spit out bits of paper towel, and tore the bandage with my teeth, tucking it in, a little tight, but not too tight. I taped over this with some duct tape. 

	My hand was in better shape, though I could see the ligaments through the gash. I dumped some gin on it. Bad idea, by the way, do not use gin. White light exploded in my brain when it burned. Possibly felt even worse than the broken arm. But, at the least, it was disinfected. I coiled more gauze around it, and, almost as an afterthought, rolled a magazine around my arm and taped it, as a splint.

	I sat back in one of my rarely-used kitchen chairs and wished that somehow, New China could deliver in the middle of all this. I wanted nothing more than sweet and sour chicken with some teriyaki sauce and some lo mein. I passed out on the bloody table, still thinking about Chinese food.