Jamie Brodie 01 - Cited to Death

toilet lid. "See how far you can make it towards getting your pants off." Then he proceeded to strip down in front of me.
    I'd have to be dead three days to not appreciate the sight of Pete taking his clothes off. Unfortunately, at the moment, I couldn't do much to express my appreciation. I tried, though. "Mmmm hmmmm."
    He looked at me and laughed. "You're insatiable, you know that?"
    I made a sound of some sort. He laughed again and reached out. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up."
    I stood up and leaned on him while he got my pants down and I kicked them away. Then he helped me into the shower and turned it on. The water felt great, as long as it didn't get near my face. Pete washed the rest of the blood from my neck, shoulders and chest, then did a quick wash of the rest of me and of himself. He sat me down to work the shampoo through my hair. It really stung when we rinsed it out, hitting the cuts on my face. I was dizzy and still in pain, although my jaw and head had settled down to a dull throb. In spite of that, my close proximity to Pete resulted in a physical response. Not as vigorous as it would have been under normal circumstances, for sure, but a definite sign that I wasn't quite dead yet.
    But I wasn't able to do anything about it, and by the time we were out of the shower and dried off, I was too buzzed on the oxycodone to maintain my interest, so to speak.
    Pete got me situated in bed, then helped me into a pair of my new pajama pants. It was easier lying down. Then he slid in beside me. "How ya doin'?"
    "Mmm hmm." I tried to smile at him. "Da'ks."
    "You're welcome." He kissed me on the forehead. "Think you can sleep?"
    "Ma'be. Gon' dry."
    "Okay. Me too." He turned out the light. "Wake me up if you need anything."
    "Mmm hmm."
    Pete stretched out beside me, touching just enough to provide warmth. His breathing evened out and slowed down into his sleep pattern pretty quickly. I wasn't sure if I could fall asleep or not, in spite of the drug effects. But I was still wondering about it when I did slide into dreamland.
    I was dreaming that I was watching Pete get a tattoo when something woke me up. Pete's arm was draped over my chest but he was awake too. A very slight tinkling sound followed. It sounded an awful lot like broken glass being brushed away.
    Pete breathed "shhhh" into my ear. Then another broken glass sound. Pete whispered, "Shotgun under bed. Loaded. Not chambered. Safety on." Then he rolled away, to a standing position, and silently slid his bedside table drawer open. He lifted out his old service weapon and laid it on the top of the table. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants, picked the gun back up, and eased the bedroom door open. I rolled stiffly to the side of the bed. Every movement was hurting, but my adrenalin was flowing so fast that the pain didn’t fully reach my conscious thoughts. I crouched to the floor, holding on to the bed. The shotgun was within reach, and I lifted it - then stood. I couldn't hear anything from downstairs. Pete was still standing with the bedroom door cracked. He waved me over. "Stay behind me. Silent. Stay out of the light." I nodded. He opened the bedroom door all the way and stepped out into the hallway.
    Pete crept down the stairs and stopped at the next to last step before the landing. I followed him, staying about two steps behind. He quickly looked around the wall. Now I could hear movement. It sounded like only one person, but I wasn't sure. The switch to turn on the living room ceiling light was on the opposite side of the wall from us. Pete leaned back to me and breathed into my ear again. "When I say, rack the gun. Then I'll turn on the light." I nodded. He edged around the wall and motioned me over to the kitchen counter, where I could look down into the living room. Now I could see a little by the street light that was filtering into the living room through the hole in the living room window. There was only one guy. He was going through the papers on the ottoman, holding a small flashlight in his teeth as he examined each one. I smiled grimly to myself. If he was looking for the Welsh article, he was out of luck. I’d never printed it out.
    The rustling of the papers was making enough noise that the guy apparently hadn't heard us approach at all. I raised the shotgun, ready. Pete whispered, "Now." I racked the gun. The guy dropped his flashlight and yelled, "Shit! Don't shoot!"
    Pete flipped the light on. "Hands up! Get on your knees! On the