Blaze of Glory by Jeff Struecker, Alton Gansky Read Free Book Online Page B

double-edged razor he used to shave every morning. Electric razors were for sissies. He thought of the razor and how it had belonged to his father. He thought of the thin, sharp-edged blade inside—then he thought of his wrists.
    It wouldn’t take long. If he used hot water on his wrists first, it wouldn’t even hurt. He thought of his legless, one-armed friend in the hospital.
    Zinsser clamped his eyes shut.
    He felt himself swaying. That or the room was spinning. He couldn’t tell the difference.
    He forced his eyes open. It was time to begin The Routine.
    In the kitchen he started a pot of high-octane, African coffee. While the coffeemaker did its job, Zinsser drank a large glass of orange juice, then went to the treadmill he kept in his bedroom. He stripped to his underwear, then, barefooted, stepped on the device and started it. For ten minutes he walked at a slow pace, just two-and-a-half miles an hour. Once convinced he wouldn’t topple over, he upped the speed to a fast walk. Five minutes after that he was jogging. Every step hurt; every stride was a struggle, but that was the point. The pain helped him dig his way out of the hangover.
    Two miles later he stopped, consumed two cups of coffee, then slipped under the stream of cold water in his shower. The water felt icy on his skin. He shook. For the first ten minutes he thought his bones shivered as well.
    The fog that draped his mind began to lift. By 0500 he felt functional and very nearly alive. By 0645 he could face himself in the mirror.
    “Time to be a soldier.”
    He started for his front door, set a hand on the knob, then stopped. A foggy, thin thought stroked his subconscious. Turning from the door he moved to a China cabinet once owned by his mother. It looked like walnut but he knew it had been hastily made of poplar in some factory in the Midwest and stained to appear like the more expensive wood.
    The high-backed cabinet had two shelves above a flat top, two pull doors at the bottom, and a single locked drawer. He removed his keys from his pocket and unlocked the drawer. Slowly he pulled it open. Inside rested the silverware his mother so prized. Time and inattention had left the silver tarnished and charcoal gray. Silverware didn’t concern him. What lay just to the right did: a Colt 1911A1 pistol. The handgun had belonged to his grandfather who, as a twenty-year-old, carried it in several battles of World War II. It was dark and bore the scars of years of existence.
    Papa Carl had given it to Zinsser as reward for graduating from basic training. The old man died six months later. Zinsser lifted the weapon and ejected the seven-round clip from the handle. The stubby bullets looked as fresh as when he placed them there five years before.
    Papa Carl told fantastic stories of shooting Germans with the gun. As the man grew older and age began to eat at his mind, the stories changed from Germans to Japanese to Koreans. It didn’t matter. Zinsser knew his grandfather had served his country for four years without complaint. So what if he couldn’t remember when he was eighty.
    The weapon felt heavier than it should; felt warmer.
    Zinsser pulled back the slide and racked a round into the chamber.
    The gun began to shake in his hand. He corrected himself. It was his hand that shook.
    “Maybe this time . . . Now would be good; now would be perfect.” If he didn’t show, they would send someone to retrieve him. It would be a shock to find his body, but at least he wouldn’t stink up the apartment with his rotting corpse. A lousy last image, but men like him didn’t get to choose the last thing they saw in this life.
    He lifted the .45, placed it to his temple, and fingered off the safety. His hand shook more. That wouldn’t do. What if he missed? What if the gun moved at the last second leaving him brain damaged but alive?
    He lowered the weapon and rethought his actions. Then he lifted the collector’s item again and placed the muzzle in his mouth.