The sweat falling down Zeb’s nose rolled downward
to join the puddle forming inside the cracked, worn and frankly completely fucked hazmat suit. The pit of bad idea that had been expanding for hours now felt like it had taken over his entire gut. The odds on this whole thing going right sucked.
The odds on it going “Zeb’s Dead” were amazing—somebody at the bar must be running a pool on him. He should’ve bet on himself. He sucked stale recycled air and looked up at the light streaming from the only way out of the basement. He’d have already called this—but… the lights were on. What business did these shitty old fluorescents have being on in this crumpled tin can of a building covered in river mud?