One More Hand

This prompt (in brackets) is taken from Complete the Story by Piccadilly Inc., which I got from the Scribbler box.

[Harry shuffled the deck of cards and pushed it across the table. “Deal,” he said. “One more hand,” I agreed. It was a way to pass the time. More importantly, it was a way to avoid talking about] the fact that I would soon have to kill Harry. We knew how I would do it – a quick shot to the temple with my Glock. But we hadn’t discussed it any further than that. Like when to do it. We were just gonna table that for later I guess.

Harry took two cards. I took one. I had a good hand, but I didn’t expect to win. Harry was the better of us at cards. It’s why we had left it up to a coin toss, and he had called heads when it was tails. Tough luck. But the guys on the radio had explained it to us blatantly, no wishful thinking: they wouldn’t reach us within four weeks.

We had enough food for one person for two weeks.

Harry raised. I met it. What did it matter? The money on the table was mine in the end no matter who won this hand. A zombie banged on the door, then wandered away. They could smell us, but they were too dumb to make more than a half-hearted attempt at breaking in. We could smell them too, a whole city of rotting bodies that we had no chance of getting through with my Glock and six bullets. We – I – had to wait for the army to push in. Our – my – motherfucking cavalry.

Harry called. He had a full house. I had two pair. See? He was always better at poker. He gave a gruff laugh and swept the pile to himself.

I would have to do it soon. To make the food last longer. To hold off the second inevitable.

How then will I be any different from the zombies outside?

Harry looked up at me from his pile of wrinkled dollar bills, and his grin faded. And we just sat there, staring at each other, horror and defeat in both our eyes.

“One more hand,” I said.

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