Trifecta gave us a fun prompt this week:
1
usually zombi
a : the supernatural power that according to voodoo belief may enter into and reanimate a dead body
b : a will-less and speechless human in the West Indies capable only of automatic movement who is held to have died and been supernaturally reanimated
b : a person markedly strange in appearance or behavior
2
a : a person held to resemble the so-called walking dead;especially : automaton
As always, it is the third definition and we have to respond with 33-333 words. My response is a continuation of a recent Trifecta prompt - Catching a Rainbow. Enjoy!
He answered on the second ring, “Waylon.”
“Umm.”
“What can I help you with, ma’am?”
“This guy. A
bartender at Jack’s. He gave me your
number.”
“I know. You need
help with something. That’s why he gave
you my number.”
“My son. He was taken
five week and two days ago. The police
have nothing. I need someone to help me
find him.”
She hated how pathetic, weak, and desperate she
sounded. But, in the end, that didn’t
matter. Getting Curran back was all that
did.
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Jen Becker, Mr. Waylon,” she took a deep breath, “And, Mr.
Waylon. I don’t know what you do, but
please. I need your help.”
“Call me Rhys, Ms. Becker.
And yes. I will help. That’s why I needed to know your name. Meet me at Jack’s tomorrow night at
nine. I’ll let you know where we go from
there.”
“Oh my god. Thank you
so much.”
“Until then, Ms. Becker.”
The line went dead.
Jen struggled to summon the energy to even put her phone away. She knew, beyond any doubt, that Rhys Waylon
would help her where no one else would.
They all told her Curran was dead and to be ready to find nothing more
than his little body cold and still.
Rhys Waylon was the first who took her seriously.
“Here, Jen. Drink
this. It’ll help,” the bartender handed
her a reddish colored drink.
Operating on auto-pilot, Jen took the glass and sipped the
drink. After a few minutes a warmth and
lightness washed through her. She jerked
her head up looking for who was in the bar.
The bartender was it.
“What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing. It’s my
version of a Zombie.”
“There’s more than alcohol in this!”
“I tweaked the recipe a little. I mean you no harm. You needed something to steady your nerves
before you fell off the barstool. My
Zombie does that.”
She stood and realized she did indeed feel much better.
I would have punched the barkeep. Someone slipping something into my drink would freak me out!
ReplyDeleteNo kidding, right? Thanks for stopping by!
DeleteWell! What drug was in that Zombie? Versed? Lots of tension leading to the end--to be continued, I hope?
ReplyDeleteI am hoping it will be continued as well. I have such a great overall plot line for this, I just hope the rest keeps coming together.
DeleteI think I'd be asking for that roofie myself in that situation.
ReplyDeleteTough call. Part of me is with Draug in thinking I'd want to punch someone for doing that but being able to forget my son's been kidnapped, even if it is drug induced, would be very tempting.
Deletehe was trying to help, right?
ReplyDeleteI guess I'd take the "little adjustment" instead of the anxiety that might consume me instead.
it was well written and readable. :)
Yeah. Tough call on whether or not to be mad at the bartender. I guess we'll have to see on that one (me, too, when I get time to get back to this!). Thanks and thanks for stopping by.
Delete