The Fort (Aric Davis)

head into its metal bowl to drink. Finally, he pulled himself out and answered the still-ringing phone.
    “Hello,” said Hooper.
    “Hoop? That you?” said a voice that Hooper could recognize but not place with his scrambled brain. He sat heavily on the floor, the phone teetering ominously on the counter as he sank to the ground.
    “Yeah, this is Hooper. Who’s this?”
    “Carl, buddy. You sound like shit. Everything OK?”
    Hooper smiled despite the pain in his leg and the throbbing in his head. Thank God it was just Carl. “No, I’m sicker than a dying dog. Fucking summer colds are the worst.”
    “You’re damn straight they are. Listen, I was just calling to confirm working on the car tomorrow, but I figure you’re probably not up for that.”
    Hooper smiled again. He’d forgotten about his plans for tomorrow completely. “No, sorry, man. I got to take a pass on that. I’ll let you know when I’m better. We can hook up.”
    “That’d be great. My crazy stepson got into some shit today. Wait’ll you hear it. It will blow your mind. I’d been feeling like he and I were the only sane ones over here, but now I’m on my own. Him and his buddies just went batshit.”
    “Can’t wait,” said Hooper, his vision blurring. What the fuck did he care about Carl’s kids?
    “Listen, I’m not doing anything,” Carl said. “Why don’t I have Beth make you up some of her famous chicken soup, and I can run it on over?”
    “No,” said Hooper, too quickly and too harshly. “I don’t want to pass this thing around. Trust me, it’s a killer.” He chuckled. “Believe me, do yourself a favor and stay away from here for a day or two, all right?”
    “All right, buddy,” said Carl, but Hooper was still afraid his friend really thought he should stop by. And if he does I’ll probably have to kill him. He’d call an ambulance if he saw me now, and once they dig that bullet out of my leg the cops will get a warrant in no time. “But if you change your mind,” continued Carl, “let me know, OK?”
    “Will do,” said Hooper, before pulling the phone off of the counter onto the floor with a crash, righting the base, and then replacing the handset to disconnect the call. Christ.
    He was thirstier and more nauseous than he’d ever been since Vietnam. He slowly pulled himself up and slid, using the counter as support, to the sink. He turned on the water and then stuck his head under the basin as he’d done the last time. The water was cold, and the shock of it against his warm skin was glorious, as was drinking oceans of it as the liquid poured from the faucet. Without removing his head from the sink, Hooper opened the cupboard closest to it and let his fingers fumble around until he’d extracted two glasses. He pulled his head free and filled them both with water, set the glasses on the counter, and then stripped off the jeans he was wearing. He suppressed a scream as they came off of his right leg, and then he shook them loose onto the floor.
    With the pants off, Hooper steeled himself to finally look at his leg. Craning his head back, he could see a small black hole surrounded by blood. Coagulated blood, thick like pudding, was in and around the hole, along with a red stain that went all the way to the bottom of his foot.
    Hooper limped back to the long-forgotten bags from Meijer and quickly found what he was looking for. He took the bottle of grain alcohol from the paper bag back to the kitchen, set it on the counter, and opened it. This is going to be bad, but you have to do it. Hooper dropped a towel on the floor, stood on it, and poured alcohol down his injured leg.
    The raging fire of pain was instantaneous. It was a heat of pure white flame that seared up Hooper’s leg and all through his body, consuming his very thoughts. All that there was room for in his mind was pain, but he managed to replace the bottle on the counter and then pour a glass of water over his leg. The pain didn’t disappear, not fully, but it did temper, thanks to the dilution of the alcohol.
    He let out a deep breath, then almost laughed at himself: the sound had been nearly orgasmic. He looked back at his leg. It was wetter than before, and most of the coagulate was washed from it, but otherwise it looked the same. Hooper grabbed the other glass of water, then hobbled away from the sink.
    He made his way down the basement stairs, using his body to provide friction against the wall, so as not to tear the handrail from