Chapter 2b: Drinking to Illness

Once the night watch had calmed Drummen down, he sat on the curb of the cobble stone street, yanked his gore-covered boots off, and threw them as far as he could. He didn't want any part of that...thing on him. Drummen wanted to forget the last hour and regretted showing up for duty at all, wishing he had stayed home drinking. The thought of getting ignorantly drunk and forgetting about this whole business appealed to him more than any coddling the guards had done. A half bottle of spirits wouldn’t make the nightmare go away, but it might make him forget how terrible it all was for a little while. Without saying a word, he lumbered down the street on bare feet. His men stared at his broad back in silence as he strolled into the night.

Two hours later, Drummen sat at a food stained table in his dining room, which also served as his bedroom and kitchen, a half empty bottle of cheap liquor held between his beefy, calloused hands. The booze didn't help. The images and sounds continued to flash through his mind with unbidden regularity. The leper's wart-ridden face as he pushed himself off the ground. The rotter's gore spilling out of his side. The bastards severed hand flying through the air. The way he kept coming and coming at Drummen with eyes devoid of emotions, dead eyes. The severed head gnawing on empty air. That was the worst. He couldn't let go of that image.

He brought the bottle to his lips, taking generous swigs. Bubbles floated up through the amber liquid as the liquor gurgled down his throat. The spirits burned, but not enough to sear away the awful memories.

Drummen set the bottle down and locked his fingers over his head, elbows out. A ghastly cringe full of horrors that would not be buried contorted his face.

The godsdamned thing was dead! It was dead! It had to be dead! He was sure of it. Yet it had moved. The severed head had rocked itself around to face Drummen, its teeth viciously gnashing together. Click…Click…Click…Click…Click…Click. Stop! Stop moving! Stop looking at me! Just STOP! What he saw wasn’t possible. None of it could have happened, but it did. All of it did!

Drummen ran his quivering fingers through his sweat soaked hair and reached for the bottle. His hand had almost grasped the neck when a chill coursed through his body and the room spun. He closed his watery eyes and put a hand to his forehead. The chill went away, replaced by uncomfortable warmth. The dizziness became nauseating.

“Cheap rotgut.” He mumbled and tried to stand, but only fell back in the old wooden chair, the room tilted and warbled around him. He couldn't get his bearings. Surely he hadn't drank that much.

Without warning, the vomiting started. All of the liquor he had consumed wasted itself across the dirty wooden table. He grabbed the edge of the furniture and retched another pint of liquor onto the wooden surface. The mucus filled liquid ran between the table boards and off the edges, pooling onto the floor and into his lap. He let go with one hand, but before he could gather his bearings he turned to the side and heaved again; stomach clenching up with a will of its own. Very little spewed out. The vomit was getting thicker, leaving dark strings that stretched from his bearded lips to the floor.

"What the Hell?" Anger and frustration made him let go of the table and slam his fist down on its edge. The bottle bounced before tipping over and crashing to the table. The liquor gurgled out the open bottle to mix with the bile-laced liquor already soaking into the table.

"Awe great. That's just bloody grea…" Again he regurgitated. He couldn’t catch his breath as his stomach contracted and his face burned red against the strain. A groaning rumbled in his throat as his stomach clenched, not releasing him to breathe for almost a full minute. The familiar taste of copper filled his mouth as his stomach finally unclenched. Thin strings of blood hung from his beard and glistened on his lips.

Gasping for breath he wiped the back of his hand across his open mouth. His hand shook as he gazed, wide eyed, at the thin film of blood coating the back of his hand. Fear crawled like a spider up his back. He had never vomited blood before. He retched again. This time the blood flowed freely, painting the front of his leather armor red and soaking into his vomit stained britches.

Drummen leapt from the chair, sending it crashing to the floor. The room tilted out of control. He couldn't tell up from down as he took a wobbly step forward. The world tilted and swirled with colors and shapes as a violent flash of disorientation struck him. He stumbled sideways and grasped for the edge of the table. He didn't even come close and crashed to the ground. Drummen lay on the floor twitching, his hand raising and lowering several times before becoming still.