Bulleit Time

It's the end of the world as he knows it, but he feels fine.

The world as they knew it was, and then it wasn’t.

Simple as that.

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Joel Kennedy figured he was probably the last living person left in the U.S., if not the entire world. What started as a slow and methodical evacuation of the Earth over the last several years had quickly devolved into full scale hysteria once the current president was elected. Joel would never understand what the American people were thinking when they allowed that doddering, dementia addled dumbass into power. Now the whole world was in the throes of an apocalypse.

Quarantine zones that had established a tenuous normalcy were deserted with sudden and reckless abandon by the military on orders from the federal government. Most citizens of these zones were forsaken, callously cast aside to fend for themselves by an uncaring administration. Naturally, the feds lied about what they were up to and the gullible, glassy eyed denizens of the American public ate up the BS even as the truth swept inexorably across the world like wildfire.

The last zone to be abandoned was the court of the Jester-in-chief himself: Washington D.C. As before, anyone and anything to do with the federal government was efficiently extricated, while the plight of the average person was heartlessly ignored.

This was where Joel came into the picture.

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Joel Kennedy was an operative for the Praetorians, an intelligence and paramilitary organization that operated independently of any Earth government. Their operations were usually restricted to off-world activities. It was the easiest way to avoid the bureaucracy.

The election of President Dumbass changed everything. Praetorian leadership watched the plague devour the world, thanks to the reckless incompetence of P.D. There had to be an intervention, and the Praetorians were best equipped to step into the breach. All operatives were recalled from across the known depths of space; their preeminent mission now evacuating as many people from Earth as possible.

Fifteen man squads were deployed with surgical precision to the discarded quarantine zones. They would gather as many survivors as possible, radio HQ to dispatch the necessary number of drop-chops, and safely evacuate once everyone was onboard. That was the ideal scenario, provided their defensive position wasn’t overrun while waiting for extraction, and every last living person slaughtered.

It happened.

More than once.

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That wasn’t exactly how things played out for Joel Kennedy and his squad on what was supposed to be their final evacuation. The mission had gone awry and people had died, but Joel created enough of a diversion to allow the remaining survivors to get away. Now, after finding a suitable refuge, he took stock of his situation.

His tactical body armor was utterly shredded, and his bloodied combat knife hung upside down in its sheathe by a thread. He had two magazines left for his main sidearm, a .45 caliber pistol holstered under his left shoulder. For his assault rifle and back up pistol, a 9mm subcompact, he had one mag each. Somewhere along the way he had picked up a shotgun, as well as a handful of shells. The last thing Joel Kennedy checked was his antidote ration.

He had one vial left.

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Praetorian HQ had acquired the antidote through the few governmental connections they maintained. The average person had no idea a cure even existed, but the pharmaceutical industry had long ago developed the antidote. After all, it was their reckless experimentation that caused the outbreak in the first place. And since the industry was funded almost entirely by the government, any and all information relating to the plague was suppressed.

All Praetorians dispatched to Earth were provided with five vials of the antidote each, and each vial contained three doses. It was a testament to how severely the situation had deteriorated that Joel was forced to use four of his rationed five on the refugees and his fellow squadmates. Joel had not been bitten as far as he could tell, but he could hear them snarling and shuffling: hundreds of them, if not thousands. He told himself it was only a matter of time.

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Joel Kennedy switched on his flashlight and swept the small room he had taken refuge in with its high intensity beam. What he discovered astonished him. He couldn’t believe his luck.

The last few hours were a jumbled blur in his memory, but one distinct image stood out in vivid detail amongst his tangled recollections of frantic firefights and bloody close calls on the dilapidated streets of Washington D.C.: the words Bulleit Time illuminated in flickering neon colors. As evidenced by what his flashlight showed him, he was in that establishment’s storeroom, which contained shelves stacked floor to ceiling with bottles of Bulleit bourbon.

The whole world had gone to Hell, he had been forced to strand himself on the dying planet, countless undead were relentlessly hunting him, and here he was trapped in a room with a practically endless supply of his favorite brand of whiskey.

Joel retrieved a bottle of Bulleit 10 Year from one of the shelves and popped off the corked top, seal and all. He took a long swig, savoring the taste as the smooth liquid washed down his throat with a slight burning sensation. After dozens of successful missions and thousands of lives saved, Joel figured if it all had to end for him, this was probably the best he could hope for.

Joel Kennedy took a few more generous gulps, then racked the bolt on his assault rifle and flung the door to the storeroom open as he stepped out to meet his fate.

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