The Map of Moments by Christopher Golden Read Free Book Online

could across the road. It bounced once on the concrete, hit the opposite curb, and shattered, a dozen parts losing themselves amidst the muck and shit already there.
    “Crazy old bastard,” Max muttered, and was answered by the sound of a motorcycle roaring somewhere far away.
    He slipped between two buildings, stumbling over a pile of refuse from a gutted dwelling. Someone's refrigerator leaned against one wall, its edges taped shut and several fridge magnets still exhorting the wonders of Six Flags and Joyce's Gumbo. He passed the fridge and pissed with his head resting against the wall.
    Turning back to the road, he noticed the bicycle. It was rusty, single speed, and it had the remains of a kid's seat on the back, foam and straps long since rotted away. He looked around, natural guilt pricking at him as he pulled the bikeupright. This had to belong to someone, but there was no one here. The buildings were empty, and felt as if they'd been deserted for some time. Cooper's Bar was full, but he had no idea where any of its patrons lived. Maybe they now only truly existed in Cooper's.
    It could have been noon or three in the afternoon; he'd lost all track of time. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry and demanded water, and his insides roiled with the effects of too much whiskey; he knew he had to find his way back to the hotel. He had left Gabrielle's funeral and lost himself for a moment, and he needed to center his thoughts again, handle the grief, and look forward to the time when he could move on.
    He could not believe how quiet it was. Even inside the bar—he now struggled to remember the sound of voices other than his and Ray's. Had
anyone
been speaking in there? Or had they all been listening?
    He started cycling on the soft tires, heading back to Orleans Avenue. But when he reached there he turned left, not right toward the French Quarter, steering without really thinking, and the presence of other people again was good enough for him. A few cars came by, then an army Humvee, and some trucks towing trailers stacked high with filthy kitchen appliances. Other people were using bikes to negotiate their way around town. A couple of cop cars zipped past him, lights off but obviously going somewhere in a hurry.
Someone's day ruined,
he thought, and he was glad he was moving in the opposite direction.
    The exercise was painful at first, but then Max startedto enjoy it. He felt the alcohol's effects leveling off to simple drunkenness—an improvement over his previous state of totally shitfaced—and he could handle that just fine. His muscles started to ache, but that was okay, that was right, because he'd let himself go. Since fleeing New Orleans six months earlier, he'd been wallowing in despair. He'd never wanted to admit to himself that he was depressed, but retrospect was a clearer, more honest glass through which to view what had happened.
    He pedaled harder, because it was starting to feel good.
    These past few months in Boston he'd stopped exercising, preferring instead to sit in front of the TV and lose his way in mindlessness. His diet had also suffered, and slowly he'd been piling on the pounds; not a fat man yet, but heavier than he'd ever been. His strength had faded, and tiredness was always close by.
    Now he had the wind whipping at his face and sweat beading on his brow, and though the smell of this place was like nothing he had ever imagined, there were sights around each corner that he had only ever seen with…
    “Gabrielle.” He whispered her name and it was lost to the breeze, along with her memory. He had just buried his Gabrielle. She'd felt too young to love, but her eyes had sometimes looked so old.
    Somewhere in the distance he heard a gunshot. He braked, and the bike's old wheels squealed in protest. He came to a stop behind an abandoned car, mud and filth dried in a thick coating and obscuring its color and make. Listening, head tilted to one side, he began to doubt what he'dheard, when two