Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) (24 page)

“I got a pocket flashlight, I’ll make sure to take it with me,” Brogan said. “By the way, where do I change money around here? Guess I’m going to need some local currency.”

“Mac’s exchange house, two blocks west of here on the Drag,” Harold said. “It’s open until midnight. They do a fair and honest trade.”

“Sounds good. So, Harold, where does all the action go down in this city? Any place in particular?”

“Well, God’s truth, if there ever was such a thing around here, you can’t go wrong with what we’ve got at the Quiver. It’s the most popular place on the Drag,” the old porter replied. “Down in the bar, what we call the saloon, we got a live band on Friday and Saturday nights. That’s still a couple of days away, but there’s a pool table there if you like to shoot a game.”

“Sure do.”

“Make sure you know the house rules first. The games can get pretty lively, if you know what I mean. Next door to the saloon is the gaming room, and as for the girls…” Harold looked across at Brogan, grinning mischievously, “no need to look for them, they’ll find you. Especially a good looking fellah like yourself.”

“Sounds like you got everything covered here.”

“We do our best. If you do venture outside, watch out for the side street joints. They’re a little cheaper, and a whole lot rougher. Getting in ain’t the problem, it’s getting out that’s hard. Like I say, seeing as you just arrived, I recommend you come on down to the saloon for the first night. You’ll get all the action you’re looking for. Cast-iron guaranteed.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks for the info.”

“Happy to oblige. That’s what I’m here for.”

Harold stood there without budging, staring at Brogan, an expectant look on his face. It took Brogan a moment to figure out that the old man was waiting for a tip. He reached into a pocket and rummaged around. Finding a coin, he handed it over. The wizened porter examined it a moment, then shoved it in his pocket without comment.

Brogan walked him to the door and opened it for him.

“Anything you need, just let me know,” Harold said, and walked down the hall. Brogan shut the door and locked it, then slid the thick security bolt across. He walked back over to the bed, took off his boots and jacket, and slid under the heavy duvet cover. Reaching over, he switched off the lamp and closed his eyes. Dog tired from the day’s travel, a moment later he was fast asleep.

An hour later, Brogan woke up to the sound of an argument. As he came to his senses, he realized that it was coming from outside his window. The loud talk quickly turned into a shouting match. Then the shouting stopped mid-sentence and he heard the sound of a scuffle. By the time he reached the window and flung the curtains across, the fight was as good as over.

A man lay on the ground on his back, both arms above his head, while a large figure wearing a brown sheepskin coat leaned over him, pummeling him in the face and ribs. Finally the man’s arms drooped, then fell to the ground. The victor didn’t take that as his cue to stop, however. With heavy fists, he continued to rain blows upon the senseless man.

Brogan’s stomach turned. Any longer, and this would be murder. He pulled open his window and was about to shout down when another man arrived on the scene. Standing below on the boardwalk, Brogan couldn’t see him, but could make out his shadow casting out onto the ground from one of the hotel’s street lanterns.

“Hey, that’s enough, Pete,” a gruff voice called out. “Come back inside and finish your drink.”

The man named Pete straightened up, breathing hard. “Yeah, I’m about done here.”

“What the hell got into you?” chided his friend. “I take a moment to go to the pisser, and when I get back, you’re out here killing somebody.”

“Fucker was making fun of me,” Pete said, turning away from his victim and walking toward the man Brogan couldn’t see. “That’ll teach him to make fun of a man’s whiskers.”

“Shit, Pete,” his friend sighed. “A guy like you’d start a fight in an empty bar.”

“Really?” Pete said, stepping up onto the boardwalk and disappearing from view. “When was the last time you saw one of them around these parts?”

Both men started laughing. A moment later, Brogan heard the sound of their footsteps receding along the boardwalk planks in the direction of Quiver’s saloon, and he was left standing there, staring out at the motionless man.

That’s what happened when you had nobody to mind your back in a town like this. Left for dead after a drunken bar fight.

Brogan turned away from the window. He sat on the bed and put his boots on. Somebody had better go see what sort of condition the man outside was in. He guessed that would be him.

However, when he stood up and looked out the window again, the man was gone. Whether he had gotten up on his own or been dragged away, Brogan had no idea. With a sigh, he turned around and looked for his jacket. Now that he was up and dressed, it was time to check out the town.

After changing a quarter-ounce gold coin at Mac’s into TJ dollars—the local currency—Brogan entered the Quiver Bar by way of a pair of batwing swing doors, similar to those of an old western saloon. They brought him into a short hallway where a plain oak door designed to keep out the cold and damp took him into the bar.

A whoosh of warm air greeted him from within as he stepped inside. He looked around to see he was in a large and noisy room, a gray haze of cigarette smoke hanging thick in the air.

Mounted on the walls were newly-painted radiators, which accounted for the warmth. In front of him was a long wooden counter, and past the busy bar staff he could see a lounge at the back with doors leading into it from either side of the room.

From somewhere out back he heard a loud clacking noise that sounded like the rack breaking in a new game of pool. Gazing over to one corner, he spotted the table, its dark green baize illuminated by a tin lamp dangling overhead. Two players stood by, cues in hand, while others sat on benches around it. On the blackboard by the back wall, the slate was full of names scrawled in white chalk.

Brogan found a spot at the counter and squeezed in beside a couple of men in earnest conversation who barely glanced at him as he sat down. Soon a barman came over and he ordered a bourbon and coke. While he waited for his drink, Brogan gazed idly at the two sitting beside him. The nearest was a large, burly man. Brogan glanced down at his thick, hairy fingers wrapped around his whiskey glass, and saw they were bloodied and scraped. Hanging from the back of his stool was a large brown sheepskin coat with a white fur-lined collar and trim. This must be Pete, the man he had observed from his window earlier.

Brogan looked up at him curiously. Pete was in his fifties and wore an old faded baseball cap, underneath which was a large, grizzled face with huge graying pork-chop sideburns. Stuck out of the side of his mouth was the stump of a cigar that had long gone out.

The big man caught Brogan staring at him.

“Who do you think you’re looking at, mister?” he said, cutting off mid-conversation with his friend. “I know you or something?”

“No,
amigo
,” Brogan said politely. “Admiring the chops, that’s all. I’d say they took a while to grow.”

“Well, that they did alright,” the man admitted, relaxing a little. “Helps get you through the winter with a little fur on the face.” Pete turned back to his friend and a moment later was back in animated conversation again.

Brogan’s drink arrived. Taking a sip, he was surprised to find that the locally made “Coke” tasted pretty good. So did the bourbon. He paid for it, then stepped away from the counter and spent the next twenty minutes circling the bar, discreetly examining the faces of the saloon’s customers. Ladies dressed similarly to Marlee, the girl he had encountered on the stairs earlier, likewise patrolled the bar area, smiling or winking at him as he passed by. Brogan ignored them. He had work to do.

In his mind, he focused his attention on the image of the main perp, the smaller man, the one with the brown hair. From their massive physiques, he knew he would have no problem recognizing either of the two Neanderthal Brothers if he came across them.

He had no joy on his first pass through. No one resembling any of the three men were to be seen in either the bar or lounge. After completing a second circuit with as much success, Brogan finished up his drink. He placed his glass down on an empty table, headed for the entrance, and stepped out of the bar. It was time to take a look at the rest of the strip.

The night had gotten colder. Walking along the boardwalk, he exhaled thick plumes of mist into the air with each breath. It was difficult to make out people’s faces on the street. Most were well wrapped up against the cold and wearing some type of headgear, and the only chance he got to examine their faces was once he entered a bar.

Over the next few hours Brogan traipsed up and down the Drag, poking his head into every bar, saloon, casino, and strip joint he came across, stopping off for a drink in a few of them so as not to appear too conspicuous. In that regard, he had the advantage that no one in town knew him, not even the perps. If he came across them, they would have no idea who he was.

Off the main Drag, most of the bars were mere dirt-floor shacks with no more than a plank stretched across a couple of whiskey barrels to serve as a counter. After the incident outside his hotel window, Brogan took extreme care in them. He’d already witnessed how easy it was for a man to stumble into trouble in this town.

Over a dozen bars and several whiskeys later, Brogan called it a night, disappointed he hadn’t come across any of the men. According to Cole, the perps should have reached Two Jacks that afternoon. Where else would they be in a town like this, if not somewhere along the Vegas Drag?

About one a.m. he headed back to the hotel and up to his room. Drifting off to sleep and a little drunk, Brogan felt his impatience rising. He hoped he didn’t have to ride all the way back to Winter’s Edge to pick up the perps’ trail again.

Hardewick, Outzone (100 miles north of Two Jacks)

“Oh man, can’t that mechanic fix Haiden’s machine any damned faster? Please lord, don’t make me stay another night in this shithole.”

The plaintive voice floating across the floor of the Hardewick Tavern belonged to that of Nooge Gresham, where he and his brother sat in a corner, a half-drunk bottle of whiskey on the table in front of them. It was twelve noon and they were the only two customers inside.

Nooge glared across at the owner, who stood behind the counter polishing a whiskey tumbler raised to the light of the one and only window of the gloomy little barroom. “Ain’t nothing to do in this podunk town except drink,” he muttered disconsolately.

The previous afternoon, the engine of Ritter’s Honda had begun acting strangely, sounding strained and losing compression. Pulling off the road and keeping the engine running, Ritter had removed the radiator cap to see a steady stream of bubbles inside, confirming his fear that the head gasket had blown.

It had been dusk by the time he’d nursed the machine into Hardewick, the next town on their journey, and the men hadn’t managed to locate a mechanic until morning. Hardewick was a simple farming hamlet comprised of not more than a dozen or so houses gathered around the southern tip of a small lake.

“Haiden’s at the garage with him now, stripping the engine,” his brother told him. “If the block needs resurfacing, we’ll have to take it somewhere else. No way in hell we can get that done around here.” Brick picked up the bottle of whiskey from off the table and refilled his glass. “Earliest it will be ready will be late this afternoon, by which time I’ll be too drunk to ride, that’s for sure.”

The doleful expression on Nooge’s face worsened. “Throw me the noose,” he grumbled. “Got a bunch of dough burning a hole in my pocket, and so far I ain’t seen as much as one ugly farm girl to spend it on in this town. How’s that for luck?”

A faint smile came over his brother’s face. “Can’t you ever stop thinking about women?” He took a long sip from his drink, then put the glass back down on the table, smacking his lips appreciatively. “Things could be worse, you know. At least the whiskey’s good here.”

Nooge scowled at his brother. “What use is whiskey without a little company?” He stared over at the bar owner again. “Tell me, mister, where can a good-looking guy get some action around here? All I want is a quick roll in the hay. This is a
farming
community after all. I don’t care how ugly she is neither, and the thicker her ankles, the better. Built for comfort, that’s how I like ‘em.”

The owner looked away nervously, arranging some bottles on a shelf above him. Brick chuckled. “You got to learn to be more patient,” he chided his brother. “We made good coin at the DQ, so quit bitching and start drinking. In a couple of days, you can have all the fun you want, ‘cos say what you want about Haiden, the man knows how to put money in our pockets.”

Nooge reflected on his brother’s words. Their business up north had gone well. He shouldn’t complain. On arrival at Grayfall, a slavers’ trading post right at the border of the Devil’s Quadrangle, they had taken their captive to a slaverhouse, one Ritter knew of that specialized in the sale of women. Its owner, Rosie, a plump redheaded woman in her mid-forties, had given them a good price for the girl, making all their effort worthwhile.

He was still sore at Ritter for not letting him have a little fun with the girl along the way. He’d told him the girl would only put up a fight and get all scuffed up. Still, Nooge had to hand it to Ritter, the man knew what he was doing. Just a shame he was such an asshole.

“Okay, guess I can wait a little longer,” he said with a sigh. “So long as it’s not forever.” He looked over at his brother and winked. “And who knows? Maybe the barkeep’s wife will come down later and entertain us. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard her creeping around all morning, bro’?” He glanced up at the ceiling. “She must be bored off her tits up there. What better way to spend the evening than sit drinking with a couple of handsome strangers?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Nooge saw the owner fumble with the glass he was holding, then heard it break on the floor behind the counter. He looked across at Brick and smirked. His brother was right. Life wasn’t so bad. With a bit of imagination, a guy could learn to have fun just about anywhere. Even in a podunk little town like Hardewick.