(2005) 'Whispers In the Wind' by Michael A Diaz

wishing he had not had that last drink. He lit the cigarette, cupping his hands around the lighter against the damn wind, his body swaying back and forth in an effort to stay upright. He took a long drag of the cigarette, his eyes glancing around the almost empty parking lot. That was when his eyes took in the exhaust coming from the tail pipe of the parked SUV on the corner of the lot. He blew smoke from his mouth, trying his best to discern if there was someone inside the shadows of the car. His befuddled, alcohol soaked brain tried to think, wondering if he knew anyone who owned a vehicle like that. It was new and looked quite expensive, too damn expensive for the neighborhood, he thought. He didn’t know anybody that owned a car like that, no one, that was for sure, he told himself. Even if drunk, Moore was a cop, an experienced one and the fact that there was a strange vehicle parked on a corner of Mickey’s Bar at this time of the morning started him thinking. Dunbar’s killing, his long time friend and partner, was still fresh in his mind. He was about to turn, going back to the vehicle to see if anyone was inside, when his stomach heaved on him and he felt the nausea welling in his throat.
    “Oh…shit”, he mumbled as the hot vomit came. He retched several times, trying his best to keep the damn vomit from getting on his shoes, cursing under his breath. Blinding pain hit him and he closed his eyes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He spit several times, tasting the sourness in his mouth, the SUV all but forgotten now as he fumbled with the car keys, the foul taste of bile deep in his throat. He cursed long and hard, mumbling as he shivered with the cold wind on his back, trying to find the damned, swimming key hole in front of him. He shook his head, blinking eyes full of tears now, his temples pounding with the headache, breathing deeply of the cold air to clear the cobwebs in his brain. Something was trying to push to the forefront and for a second he stopped his efforts to open the car door, his forehead frowning like a man in deep thought. Bu his brain refused to think and he was too damn cold standing in the middle of the parking lot. He shrugged his shoulders deeper into his coat, resuming the search for the elusive lock. The key finally found the hole in the lock and he jerked the door open, cursing still.
    As he opened the door of the car, something intruded in his alcohol soaked brain and the cold hand of death touched him. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and he turned around, his right hand searching for his pistol, his left hand going up. ‘The damn SUV’, he told himself, as his bleary eyes centered on the dark figure looming over him, catching sight of a silver streak coming up and then down, toward him. His left hand went up in front of his face as his mouth choked down a scream and then the shiny head of the axe was slicing through skin, muscle and bone just below his elbow, blood spurting from the severed limb. The axe, even if slightly deflected, continued its flight upwards, hitting him a glancing blow to his forehead. A primordial scream, full of pain and rage reverberated in the confines of the parking lot and Moore sank to his knees, his back resting on the hard surface of his car, his eyes taking in the circling, moving figure above him. The axe turned in midair, coming at him from right to left in a blur of incredible speed and he shrieked like a small child, feeling his anus and bladder let loose, the overpowering smell of feces engulfing him. For one tenth of a second, his alcohol dazed brain cursed the moment he took that last drink and then blinding pain like he had never felt before surged through him, making him nauseas, the bile raising in his throat With a scream that was more like a sob, he dropped the pistol, clattering on the hard pavement as he grabbed at his severed limb with his right hand, tears of pain and frustration rolling down his