The Forgotten (cont. from Drunk Depression)

I Drove into the late afternoon the next day, running from all my past, and landed myself back in Sante Fe. I pulled up to an old bar called 'The Forgotten'. I didn't have a dollar to my name, but i had bullets for my gun. The streets were empty and the sky seemed cloudless. It was hot and I wanted to drink to forget. So I walked into The Forgotten.
"Welcome to The Forgotten Bar" The Barman called out imediatly "anything i can get ya?"
He seemed like a friendly old man of the age of roughly fourty. His hair was a grey mess and his clothes nothing but dirty rags of what they once were. His shirt once said "Welcome to Roswell" but all was faded but "Come to 'ell". Someone drew an h over the once w of roswell and drew horns on the little green alien that was below the message.
The bar was dirty and the lights too dim to shine through the cloud of smoke that settled on the roof. Grungy road hogs, murderers, thieves, and dead beat bums filled the seats, stools and booths. the floor crunched when stepped on because of all the broken glass, dead cockroaches and dried blood. To the left of the door was the bare wooden bar and opposite were a few red booths and the rusty metal tables they surrounded. On the far end were two doors with a large sign above them reading "PRIVATE". One had an interesting girl's restroom triangle but the stick figure had anatomy drawn on and big red lips. The other was a large metal door with no handle and a slot to look out of.
I silently walked to an empty booth. the leather was torn and the foam stuck through. someone wrote on the table in big black felt tip letter "only way is up from here", names were carved beside it and a few were scratched out. The barman walked to my booth and seemed annoied.

Drunk Depression

Everyone was dead. Their blood on me. Everyone had been killed. Everything I knew was gone, the buildings burned, and the bodies buried. I checked the Manifest. Every mother and child, soldier and worker. I buried them all. Tank was gone, I saw him get shot in front of my eyes. Demetri was dead, I killed him with my bare hands. Every friend, enamy, ally, and neutral. Everything was gone. All my life, Everything to live for, and to die for. I didn't know what was next. I was on my last cigarello. When all the bodies were buried, I looked over the gaveyard. Every body was accounted for and every grave was full. All but one, the one that i stood at the foot of.
It was my 19th birthday when the full moon reached it's peak. I put the last cigarello in my maw and lit it with a red paw marked lighter. I was alone in the New Mexico desert. I felt the wind blow through my long black fur. My eyes were indifferent in the light of the old lighter.
"Happy Birthday, Jase," I whispered as I took the cigarello from my mouth and threw it with the lighter into the empty grave.
I pushed the shovel in the dirt beside the grave and hung my coat. The green alpha marked coat with the nametag "J. Grut". The coat I wore to the battle, and my father had worn before me.
Silently I turned from the sight and walked to the Technical truck. It was in a state of disrepair. The radio was destroied, the machinegun mount bent off, and the paint gone. All that remained inside were my guns: the blood-stained .45 caliber pistol which finished Demetri, my standard issue M-16 that aided me in the assult, and my 12 gauge shotgun with less than a mile on it. The engine on the technical worked when I turned the key and drove away from the past.