The Bar at the End of the World Page 5

  His eyes moved along the line and found another. It was at best a quarter mile north, and it was twice as long as the first, disappearing around a refueling station. That line was for water. He checked his watch. The sweeping second hand ticked silently in fractions of seconds as it moved around the gold face.

  Yes. It was the water line. It was that time of day, on that day of the week, when rations were distributed. One gallon per person per week. No more than three per family. That was the rule. The lines were always long.

  He shifted back to the shorter of the two lines. It wasn’t water. It wasn’t toilet paper. Toilet paper was tomorrow. Or maybe it was yesterday. But it wasn’t today.

  He squinted, trying in vain to gauge what treasure awaited the patient. He did notice, as he looked closely, members of the Overseers’ Tactical Marine Force, TMF, patrolling up and down the line. He made out the vague but easily identifiable shapes of the M27 Automatic Infantry Rifles cradled across their chests. The barrels were aimed at the sky, stretching diagonally above the helmeted Marines’ heads.

  Flashes of bright light drew his attention back to the water line. Focusing on the source of the strobing pops of light, he saw there wasn’t much of a line anymore. It had dissolved into a spreading mob of ants running away from what Guilfoyle realized were muzzle flashes. At least three of his Marines were engaged. He leaned closer to the glass, watching the miniature drama unfold below.

  The flashes stopped, but not before a half-dozen bodies lay strewn on the ground. Guilfoyle sighed and watched the Marines drag them away. The line reformed, survivors shuffling forward to take the spots of those who’d left on foot or by bullet.

  Guilfoyle nodded his approval. The people were conditioned, as he’d long predicted they would be, to mind their own business and move along. There were rabble-rousers who caused trouble in the lines or at the ration exchange centers. But in the scheme of things, they were little more than flies on a bull.

  The vast majority of the citizenry understood they needed the Overseers to provide for them. Guilfoyle knew what his herd needed. He knew how to keep them alive amidst the aftermath of the Dearth. He knew how to keep them from tearing each other’s throats out.

  “Tough love is what’s needed now,” he’d said during his public broadcast address earlier in the day. “We cannot waver. We cannot stray.”

  He’d delivered the speech that morning on the steps of the Fascio, Marines flanking him on either side, his lieutenants seated behind him. An oak lectern was emblazoned with the Overseers’ emblem of a carafe of water flanked by twin ax heads, projected atop the steps from bundles of birch rods tied together with red straps. Guilfoyle stood behind it, delivering his speech from memory.

  Beyond the crowd, towering above them and standing watch, was a monument to the original Overseers who’d built the protectorate a generation earlier.

  “Our mission is clear—survival of the species by any means necessary,” Guilfoyle said, pounding a fist on the lectern. “To have the means by which we survive, we must do what is necessary. We must think of the common good. We must put our neighbors above ourselves.”

  The sycophantic crowd roared its approval. Guilfoyle relished the applause.

  “The victory of the many requires,” he said when the crowd quieted, a finger raised to the heavens, “no, it demands, the sacrifice of the few.”

  It was then he’d announced the new allotments, reducing the lawful distribution of water and rations. That wasn’t met with the same enthusiasm as his call for vague nationalism.

  “Our enemies are stealing from us,” he said. “They are stealing from you. They take our scant resources and sell them for profit. They enrich themselves at your expense.”

  Boos and calls for blood met his words. The jeers were intoxicating; they empowered him.

  “Do not let these selfish parasites bleed us dry,” he went on. “Do not buy their wares. Do not sell them your precious rations. Do not be complicit in the destruction of our state, our homeland.”

  He raised his outstretched arms, embracing all that lay before him to thunderous applause. And then he stepped aside as a quartet of Marines brought forth a thin man in shackles.

  The prisoner was gaunt, his greasy hair matted to one side of his head, his skin almost gray. He blinked, squinting as if someone aimed a bright light at him. He was hunched in submission, his tattered clothing hanging on his frame, the frayed cuffs of his torn pants covering his feet as he shuffled to the steps.

  The man struggled against the two Marines who held him by the biceps and under his arms.

  “This man is a bootlegger.” The words dripped from Guilfoyle’s lips like acid.

  The crowd hissed. Someone threw a rock that hit the man in the side.

  Guilfoyle pointed at him accusingly. “He takes water from us and sells it for profit!” he shouted. “He is a thief and a traitor. He is a Tic.”

  The crowd cheered in agreement, chanting an insistence for the man’s death.

  “Kill him!” one yelled.

  “Make him pay!” barked another.

  Guilfoyle gestured for the crowd he’d whipped into a frenzy to calm itself, and waited for quiet.

  “We cannot abide this,” he said. “We have to send a message to that underground movement of enemies who would take from us what is so precious. They are stealing life. They are profiting from your thirst.”

  The bootlegger knew what was coming. It was the same thing that had happened to captured bootleggers for years, as long as anyone remembered. It was the same punishment.

  A dark stain spread across the man’s groin and leached across the dirty cotton of his pants. He looked down, color flashing across his face for a moment before the tears began to stream.

  Guilfoyle gave the man a disapproving glare and jabbed his finger at the prisoner. “While we barely have enough water to drink or cook,” he declared, “this man is hydrated enough to both cry and wet himself. It’s further proof of his betrayal.”

  Guilfoyle stepped toward the man, wrinkling his nose at the strong uric odor, and put his hand on the criminal’s shoulder. “May you find mercy in this world and the one that comes after,” Guilfoyle said, the sarcasm pasted atop his blessing.

  He nodded to the Marines. They tightened their grip as the bootlegger protested, trying to hold his ground. He cried out for forgiveness, for a second chance. He offered compliance and information about the Tic. The chants and jeers from the crowd drowned out his prayers for clemency.

  They watched as the Marines affixed a harness to the man’s torso, strapping it tightly across his chest and shoulders. They stood witness as one of the Marines cut a long gash across the man’s midsection. Blood poured from the slice, and the man cried out in pain and grabbed at the wound. They listened as the other Marine cranked the winch. It had been attached to a chain that had been, in turn, connected to the harness.

  As the man whimpered, sheets of sweat covering his pale body, the winch lifted him from his feet. He kicked, trying to keep himself grounded. It didn’t work.

  He hung from the front of the stone building. The chain, which ran through the gaping mouth of a gargoyle above the steps, pulled at the harness. It rode up into the man’s armpits, jerking back his arms so he couldn’t protect the wound.

  His body stretched, tearing at the wound and eliciting more unearthly howls from the dying man. The chain twisted in its ascent, and as it unwound, the bootlegger’s body spun with it. Blood drained from the wound, down his leg, off his bare foot, and dripped onto the stone plaza below.

  Guilfoyle watched admiringly. His back to the crowd, which began dispersing, he admired the newest of the admonitions—from the dying man to the dead one hanging next to him, and the dead one next to her. Three was a good number.

  “Commander, sir, your meal is ready.”

  Theo’s words shook Guilfoyle from his memory. He glanced over his shoulder to see Theo standing at attention.

  The manservant guided Guil
foyle from the salon to a large dining area, a wide oval room surrounded by glass that protruded over the building, making the space float.

  Theo referenced the neat place setting at the circular glass table to his right. Then he moved to slide out the chair and seat the commander. Guilfoyle sank into the armed chair and inched himself forward.

  The bone china plate was gold-rimmed. The cooked hen steamed at its center along with a generous portion of carrots, long green beans, and red potatoes. Guilfoyle inhaled the aroma.

  He reached out and plucked a long-stemmed glass from the table. It clinked against the china as he lifted it, swirling the blood-red wine inside. He tipped the glass and sipped. He held the liquid in his mouth for a moment, letting the tannins seep into his taste buds.

  “Great,” he said.

  Theo’s body relaxed. “Thank you, sir. I think you’ll find the hen to your liking. It’s cooked as you requested, tender and gamey.”

  Guilfoyle eyed the knife and fork beside the china plate and reached for them. But he stopped short, his fingers hovering for a moment before descending toward the bird.

  “Sir,” said Theo, “Iguazu in the former nation of Brazil, Victoria in Africa, and Niagara in the Northeastern Overseer Protectorate.”

  “What about them?”

  “Those are the only significant waterfalls left in the world,” answered Theo. “The rest have dried up either naturally or from manmade devices.”

  Guilfoyle gripped the top of the bird with his right hand. He tore at a leg with his left. He twisted it, the gristle popping and snapping until he freed it from the rest of the carcass.

  With his hands he hungrily drew the leg to his mouth and bit down, ripping at the flesh with his teeth. Pink juices leaked onto his chin as he chewed.

  His mouth full of bird, Guilfoyle eyed Theo with an approving glance. A meaty grin spread across his face. “Superb,” he said, juices collecting in the corners of his mouth. “Much better than the tilapia.”

  Chapter Five

  Zeke squinted against the hot wind and lowered his Stetson. Sand sprayed his exposed skin and stung as it blasted him. It found its way into his ears and nostrils.

  He stood in the parking lot next to Pedro’s Cantina. His traveling partners were gearing up for the trip back to the city. They were a motley crew.

  Uriel and Phil dug around in the bed of a Ford F-150. Raf and Barach loaded the trunk of a Chevy Impala. Gabe leaned against the Impala, speed loading ammo into the magazine for a large rifle. Sticking out of his waist was a wide knife handle, the blade hidden beneath his belt.

  On the ground in front of the men there were various-sized bags and packs. Extending from one, Zeke saw the ends of matching black wooden sticks. From another, he noticed a spiked silver ball attached to a chain that disappeared into the satchel. They were strange-looking weapons that Zeke hadn’t seen before.

  Should I trust these people? Do I have a choice?

  “Here,” said Pedro. “Take this. It’ll help.”

  The barkeep handed Zeke a black bandana. Like his new clothes, this too was clean. Zeke folded the stiff cotton into a triangle, wrapped it around his face, and knotted it at the back of his head. He adjusted it over the bridge of his nose. He inhaled the floral aroma. It promised a place he’d never known, one lush with green and color.

  “It’ll keep you from getting sand boogers,” said Pedro.

  That made Zeke chuckle. It was the first time he remembered himself laughing in, well, he didn’t know how long. It had been a while though. Real laughter was as scarce as water and just as life-sustaining these days.

  Still, the grin faded from his face, and he dipped his head toward the gang assembling their gear. There was nothing funny about the task ahead.

  “You never told me what this place is,” said Zeke. “Don’t I deserve to know?”

  He still had trouble wrapping his head around what was happening let alone really knowing who these people were who were intent on helping him find and rescue the woman he’d abandoned. How were five people going to get past the Overseer Marines and into the city, let alone infiltrate the Tic?

  “Deserve,” Pedro said in a way that made it sound as though he’d never said it aloud before. He was testing it out, taking it for a spin. “Interesting choice of words.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  Pedro raised a hand. “Of course you did. And you’re right.”

  “That I deserve to know?”

  Pedro shook his head. “That I haven’t told you what this place is.”

  “This is a weird place you got here,” Zeke said. “No offense. You saved my life and all, you gave me clothes and some great liquor, but I come from a place where people look out for themselves, damn their neighbor.”

  Pedro snickered.

  “That didn’t come out right,” said Zeke. “I appreciate it. I do. And I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”

  “I’ll think of something,” he said. “And remember, you do have a tab.”

  “They don’t have to do this,” Zeke said. “I can go on my own. It’s my mess. I made it; I should clean it up.”

  Pedro raised an eyebrow. “That they don’t have to is why they will.”

  What does that mean?

  The two men stood there at the front porch for the next few moments. Zeke scanned the lot and beyond. It was hard to see much past the paved parking lot to the left of the main building. The sand and dust clouded the air like a brown fog or the haze from a wildfire.

  Zeke adjusted his bandana. On the other side of the endless highway, obscured by the haze, still stood the Horde that had chased him to the cantina.

  They were in a long line against the shoulder of the road, facing the bar. The men stood in the beds of their trucks, some straddling their bikes. All of them stared through their masks at Zeke.

  “You don’t have to worry about them,” Pedro said, seeming to read Zeke’s thoughts. “They can’t touch you now. Not yet.”

  His dog padded from the bar, clopped down the steps, and joined them in the parking lot. It looked up at Pedro, its tongue hanging from its maw. It plopped onto its belly, impervious to the heat emanating from the asphalt.

  “Why’s that?” Zeke asked.

  “It’s the rules,” said Pedro. “You made it here. You’re under my protection now. And you will be until I say otherwise.”

  “So they’re, what?” asked Zeke. “Waiting for you to say otherwise?”

  “Something like that,” Pedro said. “We have a healthy respect for one another. I don’t interfere with them beyond the property, and they don’t mess with me and mine.”

  Zeke sighed, smelling the stale aroma of alcohol from his own breath. It was like every time he got one question answered, five more popped up.

  Uriel drew his attention from the awaiting Horde and the overwhelming sensation that things were not what they appeared to be. She stepped to him, an inch inside his personal space, and beamed.

  “Look at you,” she said, “all bandit-like with your little handkerchief. So cute.”

  Pedro shifted his weight, his hand pulling up on the buckle at his waist, and yanked up his pants. “You have everything you need?” he asked her. “Weapons, maps, extra fuel?”

  “We do,” she said, her eyes flitting from Zeke to Pedro. “And Zeke’s car is all fixed up. The glass in the back isn’t tinted like it was before, but it was the best we could do. It’s fueled up too.”

  “The Superbird?” Zeke asked. “It’s…fixed?”

  “Yep,” Uriel said. “Gabe’s good with cars. Yours is around back.”

  She dug into a concealed hip pocket of her leather pants, wrestled free a lump of fur attached to a set of keys, and tossed them at Zeke’s chest.

  He caught them and then held the rabbit’s foot in his fist, rubbing it with his thumb. “Thank you.”

  Uriel motioned to the keys. “About that,” she said. “The rabbit’s foot? So douchey.”

  Zeke frowned.
“It was my dad’s,” he said. “Only good thing he ever gave me.”

  Uriel’s features softened, and it appeared as though she was about to apologize. Then she shrugged. “Then your dad’s a douche too.”

  She spun on her heels and started toward the F-150, stopping ten yards into her saunter. “You coming?” she asked. “We don’t have eternity to get this done.”

  Zeke offered his hand to Pedro. “Thank you.”

  Pedro took Zeke’s hand in both of his. His large muscular grip dwarfed Zeke’s, swallowing it whole, and the man shook up and down. “Good luck,” he said. Then he reached behind his back and withdrew a large revolver. He spun it skillfully so that the grip was facing Zeke. “Take this.”

  Zeke glanced at the weapon. “I can’t. You’ve done enough.”

  Pedro pushed the butt into Zeke’s chest. “Take it. You’ll need it. It’s six shots. It kicks hard and carries a punch a lot stronger than you’re used to feeling.”

  Zeke took the gun. It was heavy, heavier than any weapon he’d ever held. True, he wasn’t a marksman with lots of gun-toting experience, but he knew enough to understand this weapon was unique. And it was old. Really old. It wasn’t something he’d seen in real life before.

  The steel was cold in his hands and the six-shooter felt foreign. He’d seen people who gripped firearms as though the machines were extensions of themselves. He wasn’t one. Though Zeke had grown up in the underworld of his city and had lived most of his life as a relative outlaw, running ill-gotten water for the Tic, he wasn’t much for weapons. As he’d proven repeatedly, he was a runner, not a fighter. Everyone he knew could attest to that now, especially Li. Most of all Li. More than anyone, Li.

  “Use it wisely,” counseled Pedro. “I’ll catch you on the flip side.”

  “Thanks,” said Zeke. “I’ll try.”

  Zeke glanced across the road at the patient Horde and crossed the lot toward his awaiting band of misfits. He studied the sky as he approached, his boots crunching on the thin drift of sand and grit that coated the lot.