The Bar at the End of the World Page 2

  “Where am I?”

  “My place. You’re in one of the upstairs rooms. People need places to stay while they figure things out. I help. Underneath us is my saloon. C’mon down when you’re up to it. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  Using his elbows, Zeke shrugged himself up in the bed. The pillow slid to his shoulders, but he propped himself up enough to see Pedro open the door and disappear around a corner. With the door open, the sounds of music and conversation drifted into his room.

  It took him a half hour or more to get the courage to sit up straight. It was another fifteen minutes to put his feet on the floor and test his weight. The wood planks were smooth, slippery from dust. With one hand on the bed for balance, Zeke gingerly walked toward a full-length mirror on the wall next to the door. He didn’t recognize himself.

  His coloring was wrong. His eyes seemed off somehow. Even the way he held his shoulders was different. But it was him. Zeke recognized the scoundrel. The most prominent confirmation was the grisly scar across his chest, and the two missing fingernails on his right hand. He traced the keloid line on his chest with one of his fingers, remembering distinctly how he’d gotten it and who’d given it to him.

  Wherever he presently stood, and he couldn’t be certain within a thousand miles where that was, he deserved to be here alone and in pain. He’d earned it. A wave of guilt washed through him, and he chastised himself.

  Where was the guilt before I did what I did? Why is it stronger now? Why is everything more acute, except for the pain?

  He was in his boxers and nothing else but the dressing covering his wounds. He eyed the white gauze tinged with the seeping amorphous stains of yellow pus. From the unexplainable absence of pain, he’d forgotten how badly he’d been hurt from the rifle shot that punctured his shoulder. He could use the arm. It felt good, if not better than before.

  The largest dressing was over his gut. He touched it, expecting a reflexive pain, but didn’t feel it.

  The wounds on his left side irritated him in the same way a bee sting lingered beneath the skin. The searing heat was gone. The sharp, radiating pain had vanished.

  How long have I been asleep?

  He remembered leaving the city, reaching its edges before encountering Marines at the gates. Then he drove in darkness before it dissolved into the bright, hazy light of midday.

  There were disconnected snippets of memory. He sighed and tried not to dwell on the mysteries, knowing it would sap what little energy he had.

  Zeke’s hair was unkempt, greasy, and matted to one side. Stubble peppered his chin. Dark purple circles hung under his eyes. His lips were blue, as was the skin under his nails. But he was breathing deeply, and his legs felt stronger while he stood there.

  As the pain dissipated, however, the thirst intensified. Incredible thirst. He opened his mouth wide and stuck out his pasty tongue. It looked gross, and he closed his mouth with a grunt.

  Zeke studied the reflection of the space behind him. There was a wooden rocking chair, some clothes, not his, draped neatly over its back. On the floor was a pair of black hide boots, some socks, and a brown leather belt coiled and set atop the boots. Hanging from one corner of the chair was a brown felt shirt. Next to it, on the chair back, was a pair of jeans. On the seat cushion was a Stetson hat.

  He dressed and adjusted the clothing on his renewed body. The clothing fit. The boots were as comfortable as any boot he’d ever worn. More than that. The clothes were clean. They were absent the stench of dried sweat or the grains of sand in every fold. They smelled almost otherworldly. Zeke searched his mind, trying to remember the last time he’d worn a clean shirt or pants or socks. He couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if that was because of the fog clouding his memory or if it was because he’d never worn truly clean clothes. Comfort was an alien concept to Zeke. Right now, in this place, in these clothes, everything was alien. He ran his fingers through his hair and put on the hat, trying to straighten it as best he could, and stepped from his room into the hallway.

  He was on the second floor, which opened at its center to the saloon below. It reminded him of one of those ancient hotels he’d seen pictures of, with rooms located off a lofty atrium.

  Zeke touched the hat on his head, running his thumb and forefinger along the front dip. He leaned into another step and moved to the wooden railing and gripped the oak beam, feeling its sturdy thickness rub against calluses at the base of his fingers, and leaned over to take in the scene below.

  The place was a study in contrasts. Naked wooden floors were as worn as the railing under his grip. The walls were rough-hewn cedar. But the lighting was decidedly LED. It was bright and carried with it a bluish hue that washed over the large space like ice.

  Equally as modern as the lighting was the glowing digital jukebox on the wall opposite the entrance and its swinging bar doors. Next to the jukebox hung an electronic dartboard. Zeke’s attention drifted from the board to the spot on the floor a little less than eight feet away, where the dark floor was worn pale from players.

  The centerpiece of the saloon was a massive, wall-to-wall oak bar. Its top was nicked and worn from countless years of use, as was its ornately decorated face. The thing looked old enough to predate the entire bar. Behind it was a mirrored wall, speckled with black at the corners. On both sides of the mirror were planks of wood that served as liquor shelves.

  Liquor.

  Pedro was behind the bar, a yellowed rag over his shoulder, an empty glass in his hand. He glanced up at Zeke and waved for him to come downstairs. He whipped the rag from his shoulder and stuffed it into the glass, twisting it along the inside.

  The barstools were empty, but the tables that filled the rest of the space were decorated with a colorful mix of characters drawn straight out of a dime-store novel.

  They were men and women as dusty as the building’s surfaces. They played cards, nursed highballs, shot glasses and mugs. They spoke in low tones. Some chuckled or outright laughed. Others had dour looks of resignation sewn into their leathery faces.

  He lifted his eyes and slid his fingers along the railing. What was this place? He moved from the spot in front of his room toward the next. Boards creaked under his weight, and his boots thunked on the solid wood.

  The door next to his was closed. But from within the room echoed laughter and the faint strains of music. Is that jazz? The soft, melancholy strains of a saxophone cried out. A woman giggled. A man said something in a low baritone, and she giggled again.

  Zeke moved on to the next room. This door was open. Specks of dust danced in the shaft of bright light filtering in through the lone window inside.

  He stepped to the threshold and, with a hand wrapped around the wide doorjamb, he peered into a room decorated like his own. It was tidy but had the stale odor of a neglected place. It seemed to Zeke nobody had slept in the bed in some time. The corners were tucked neatly underneath the thin mattress. A thin layer of dust, that which no longer spun in the air, coated the floor. No footprints.

  He spun around and scanned the rest of the rooms on the second floor. All of them had matching doors, some open and some shut. Zeke decided it was time to head downstairs and join the fray.

  He followed the railing to a staircase at the front corner of the building. One step at a time, he descended to the main floor. His boots thumped on the floorboards, betraying the silence with which he was trying to move. He needed to get back to his car, wherever it was, fill it up with gas, and find a way home. Time was running out. No matter the cost, no matter the obstacles, or Hordes, that confronted him, Zeke’s conscience tugged at him.

  Feeling everyone in the place watching him, he kept his gaze on Pedro and the bar. The conversations stopped and the place fell silent except for his boots against the floor. His cheeks flushed from the attention he was trying to ignore, and he tightened his fists at his sides. He slid onto one of the barstools. The conversations began anew. Zeke exhaled, unaware he’d been holding his breath. Despite the urge to get out of
this place, whatever it was, he needed answers to more pressing questions.

  Where am I? What is this place? How long have I been here?

  “Morning,” he said to Pedro.

  “Evenin’,” said the barkeep with a wry smile. “I see you found the clothes. They fit nice.”

  Zeke looked down at himself and nodded. “Thanks. I like the boots.”

  Pedro’s grin widened. “I thought you might. Most comfortable you’ll ever have. I’ve got a pair. Figure I’ll be buried in them someday.”

  Zeke touched the brim of the Stetson atop his head. He tugged on it, adjusting it for effect as much as comfort. “The hat too,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “You wear it well enough,” said Pedro. “What can I get you?”

  Zeke shrugged. “What do I owe you for the clothes? Seems I oughta settle up for these before I start drinking.”

  Pedro winked. “How about I just put it on your tab?” he said. “We run a balance for pretty much everyone you see in the place.”

  Zeke checked over one shoulder, then the other. He wondered which of the assembled didn’t owe the barkeep money. He adjusted his weight on the barstool and leaned forward on his elbows, but he said nothing.

  “How about a whiskey?” Pedro suggested. It was less of a question than a statement. “I’ve everything from Rebel Yell to Macallan. You tell me.”

  The barkeep moved to the top shelf left of the mirror, pushed aside the lone book sitting on it, and pulled from it a long-neck bottle filled with a honey-colored liquid. On its face was the number sixteen in large red numerals.

  “I don’t have time,” said Zeke. “I did something that I…I need to get back. I appreciate your hospitality. But I really do—”

  “You have time,” said Pedro. “Relax. I promise you that whatever it is you find so urgent will still be waiting for you when we’re done here.”

  Zeke started to get up from the seat, but the barkeep’s gaze stopped him. It was like a tractor beam that held him against the bar.

  He sighed. “Fine, but only one.”

  His eyes flitted across the bar, across the jewel-tone bottles and the thick bar glasses. Then he focused on the worn volume sitting on the end of its thick, tattered spine. The letters were in gold leaf against the black leather of the binding. He made out three letters: E, O, and H.

  “What is this place?” asked Zeke. “Who are you?”

  Pedro set the bottle on the bar in front of Zeke and pulled a large glass from behind and underneath the oak top. He set it next to the half-full bottle and pointed a thick finger at Zeke. “You want it on the rocks?” he asked, ignoring Zeke’s questions.

  Zeke’s mouth went drier than it had been. His chest tightened. His stomach lurched. A bolt of fear shot through him like lightning and instantly consumed him. His expression must have given it away, because Pedro’s face condensed with concern. He frowned.

  “What?” Pedro asked, placing his hands flat on the bar. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Zeke wasn’t sure how to respond. Slowly, he glanced over one shoulder and then the other.

  Nobody was looming. The patrons at their tables were preoccupied with their own games and conversations. A slender woman and a tall man forged from granite were throwing darts now. A heavyset bearded man with a feather-adorned gray bowler on his head leaned on the jukebox.

  Zeke turned back to Pedro. He shook his head. “You asked me if I wanted ice.”

  “I did. If it’s a problem, you can have it neat. It might even—”

  “You’re not with them, are you?” Zeke leaned heavier on his elbows, inching his face toward the barkeep. He checked over his shoulders again.

  Pedro’s wiry eyebrows arched in unison. He leaned in and mimicked Zeke’s tremulous hush. “With whom?”

  “The Tic.”

  “The Tic?” Pedro asked in a way that suggested he’d never heard of the black-market cartel, which Zeke found hard to believe.

  Zeke leaned back with suspicion. Everybody knew about the Tic. They controlled the flow of all things water. They were the reason he was here, wherever here was. They were the reason he needed to go back.

  Zeke leaned closer to the wide-eyed Pedro. “The Aquatic Collective,” he said in a power whisper. “You know, the Tic.”

  Pedro’s brows relaxed and he shrugged. “Never heard of ’em.”

  Zeke eyed the empty glass on the table. Then he glared at Pedro. He didn’t know whether to believe the man or not. He wanted to believe him. He did. Truth might ground him, give him something to hold onto while he wobbled through this surreality.

  “Then how do you have ice?” he asked.

  Pedro picked up the bottle, which looked small in his hands, and uncapped it. He drew it to his nose and inhaled the aroma. “I have plastic trays. I fill them with water and stick them in a freezer. Amazing things happen when the water hits thirty-two degrees Fahrenheit, or zero centigrade, depending on your preference.”

  Pedro reached underneath the bar. His hand returned grasping two large square cubes of ice. He dropped them into the glass with a clink Zeke hadn’t heard in ages.

  The barkeep lowered the bottle to the rim of the glass and glugged the amber liquid atop the cubes. He slid the glass to Zeke once it was full, and some of the contents sloshed onto the bar.

  “So, tell me more about this Tic Tac group of which you speak.”

  “Tic,” said Zeke. He hadn’t touched the drink. It was as if sipping from the glass would engage him in some Faustian pact. He put his hands flat on the bar, his weight resting on his elbows.

  “Tick, then,” said Pedro, “as in bloodsucker.”

  Zeke chuckled. “Yeah, I guess.”

  Pedro raised his finger in the air. “Oh, almost forgot.”

  He reached underneath the bar and pulled out a worn brown leather wallet. Its corners were threadbare, the hide having worn through, and it was molded to the oblong shape of its contents. He slapped it on the bar and pushed it toward Zeke.

  Zeke reached for his wallet. “I’d forgotten about this.”

  He pushed himself to his feet to return it to his back pocket, but stopped short. He removed a crisp bill and held it out to Pedro.

  The barkeep waved him off. “Oh no, your money’s no good here, Zeke. Put it away and take a load off. I want to hear more about the ectoparasites that have you shaking in your new boots.”

  Zeke put the bill back into the wallet, folded the leather, and slid it into his back pocket. He hopped back onto the barstool and leaned forward, wrapping a hand around the glass that was now damp from condensation.

  A cold drink. And free. None of this felt right. It was too good to be true. He should leave. His business was elsewhere.

  But he was parched. So, against his better judgment, he lifted the glass and let the sweet liquid fill his mouth and run down his throat. He relished the aftertaste on his tongue and the electric buzz rushing to his head.

  “Thank you,” he said, toasting Pedro. “It’s good.”

  Pedro bowed his head. “Glad you like it. I aim to please.”

  Zeke took a deep breath. He studied the barkeep.

  Before he responded, the crackle of static stopped him. The noise gave way to the strains of a saxophone. The woodwind’s tone danced through the space, filling it with warmth. Zeke spun on the stool to see the heavy bearded man in the bowler strolling back to an empty seat at the table nearest the jukebox. He absentmindedly flipped a coin back and forth amongst his fingers.

  “That’s Phil,” said Pedro. “He’s a regular. And he loves jazz.”

  To Zeke, hearing jazz was one of the anachronisms here. He took another, longer pull of the whiskey. His head buzzed again. The tension in his shoulders eased. His soreness loosened.

  He regarded the glass, which was now empty aside from the rounded lumps of ice at its bottom. Before he said anything, Pedro was adding another three fingers’ worth of whiskey.

  “I really should go,” Zeke said. “I’m
wasting time. I told you, I’ve got somewhere to be, something to make right.”

  Zeke knew he should leave, but something held him here. There was a disconnect between his mind and body. It reminded him of the feeling he sometimes had when awaking from a bad dream. He’d try to move his body but couldn’t. It felt like paralysis until he’d fully awake and get his wits about him.

  Is this a dream? he wondered. Though, it felt both too real to be a dream and too surreal to be his life.

  “Just enjoy it.” The barkeep motioned to the drink.

  Zeke couldn’t deny such a luxury. He wrapped his hand around the cool glass and thumbed away some more condensation. His head was swimming. The high-proof alcohol, the readily available ice, and Pedro’s ignorance served as opposing forces swirling against each other in his mind.

  “You’ve never heard of the Tic?” Zeke asked again. “You’re sure?”

  Pedro pouted and shook his head. “Nope. Never.”

  None of this makes sense.

  Anybody who had water, let alone ice, got it from one of two places. A saloon like this, in the middle of absolutely nowhere, holding sway over a marauding Horde, must be in league with the Tic. Unless…

  Zeke looked up, an epiphany blooming. “You’re with the Overseers?”

  Pedro stared back at Zeke with the same lack of recognition as when he’d referenced the Tic. The barkeep tilted his head to one side. “Overseers? What is that?”

  “The Overseers are the government,” Zeke said. “Or the best we’ve got, that is. They ration water. They ration everything. The Tic became the Tic because the Overseers were too stingy, in their opinion.”

  Pedro took the rag from his shoulder and swiped a puddle of moisture from the bar in front of Zeke, then slung it back across himself. He rubbed his chin, his fingers digging into his beard and making a scratching sound.

  “I’m neither an Overseer nor a Tic,” said Pedro. “Nor do I have relationships with either. I’m on my own here.”

  Zeke shifted in his seat and scanned the saloon once more. There were twenty or twenty-five people. None of them paid him any mind now. None except the woman approaching the bar.