White Out: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller by Eric Dimbleby Page B

body. It was nearly orgasmic.
    “How nice does that feel?” Tony asked, releasing a series of harsh sneezes. Annie noticed that he was getting sick, probably from exerting himself so much during their trip.  
    Darkness filled the void of the tavern's high-ceilinged hall. Long oak rafters reached from one end of the formerly prosperous establishment to the other. Dangling from those beams was an array of animal heads such as elk, deer, and even a black bear. Annie experienced a strange tinge in her gut, as if the animals were watching her, ready to pass some sort of moral judgment on her insurmountable weaknesses. 
    Tony flicked on the light switch, but there was no response, which was to be expected. "Candlelight it is ," said Tony. Annie detected a pleasure in that statement. The cretin never stopped thinking about his sick internal fantasies.
    Igniting a long grill lighter, Tony held it up near his face, then swept it towards Annie, asking, "You okay?"
    “No,” she said, “I'm not okay, actually. We shouldn't be in here. It's not our place. We weren't given permission."
    Tony chuckled, holding the phallic lighter near his own face once again, leering at Annie. "Who are you, Miss Manners? I think politeness and etiquette kind of goes out the window when the shit hits the fan. In case you haven't noticed," he said, gesturing towards the lengthy bay windows along the front side of The Purple Cat, completely obfuscated by snow, " the shit has officially hit the fan, and its spraying all over the joint. It’s every man for himself." He reconsidered that statement, smirking. “And every woman for herself, too.”
    "That's what scares me," she whispered, but not loud enough for Tony to hear her. He was busy surveying their new digs, as he had an air about him that he did not intend to leave anytime soon.
    The Purple Cat was devoid of life, but it still felt lived in . Auras and personalities clung to every surface, though those beings could not be seen. It hummed with recent activity, though Annie could not pinpoint what that evidence looked like. Tony touched the rim of the fireplace, looking over at Annie. The bricks encircling the fireplace were apparently still warm, which was a dead giveaway. "They haven't been here all day, but they were here this morning I'd bet." 
    "It's getting dark so they’ll be coming back. Wouldn’t you, if you were them?"
    "They may not come back at all," Tony said, plopping himself down in a faux-leather easy chair that was directly across from the fireplace. He looked as if he was born there, as if it was designed to support his exact specifications. He couldn’t hold back on the grin that slid on to his face.
    Annie wasn’t so sure about that theory. If somebody had a place like this, they would not abandon it, not in these times. 
    "Why don't you throw a log on the fire and get it stoked up again?" Tony asked, really sort of telling , looking to Annie with an expression that was just a hair short of disrespectful. Maybe this, thought Annie, was why he was on the rocks with his darling wife.
    Annie grunted. "We should at least wait outside, until it gets a little darker. I know that I'd be pretty pissed off if I came back and found somebody squatting in my spot."
    The calm expression on his face told her that he wasn't listening to her, that her words held no credence. Why would he? She was a lowly woman after all, the sissy who was being driven around in a snow sled like an invalid, unable to help them with her dainty arms and puny back muscles. 
    So came a new request, this time louder and more insistent: "Why don't you go back in the kitchen, see what's still good to eat. See if they have any steaks. We can put them right on the fire." He paused, staring at the fireless hearth, and then looked back at Annie, then at the hearth again. "And some whiskey. Or rum. Whatever they got, just no wine or anything like that. None of that sissy stuff. Beer would be perfect."
    Annie