Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) (25 page)

Two Jacks, Outzone

It took plenty of sin for a town to become known as Sin City in the Outzone. Competition was stiff. Given the reason most people came to Two Jacks, the task of finding three newly-arrived roughnecks would be considered by most to be a relatively straightforward matter.

Though it might take a while, odds were that by checking out every joint in town, you would eventually stumble upon at least one of them. Perhaps swilling whiskey at the counter of a saloon, arguing heatedly with the guy next to him, or rattling a pair of dice across the craps table at one of the town’s many casinos. Or maybe in a strip club, drunkenly tucking a five dollar note down the front of a dancer’s panties as she gyrates her hips seductively in front of him.

Frustratingly for Brogan,, none of these scenarios had materialized, and after two days of tramping the boardwalks of the Vegas Drag, trudging down every muddy side street that boasted of even the smallest sawdust hellhole, he still hadn’t caught sight of the men he was looking for.

He was sure he hadn’t missed them either, certainly not the two enormous brothers. They had either been delayed, or Cole had been wrong in his assumption that they intended coming to the city. Brogan hoped it was the former reason.

On the third night, Brogan decided he would give it one more day. High above in the skies, through the powerful lens of a drone camera, he was sure Cole knew exactly where the men were. However, with no way of contacting his friend, and if they didn’t arrive soon, he would have no choice but to go back to Winter’s Edge.

The following morning, Brogan rose at seven-thirty, showered, and was out on the Drag by eight a.m. The cafes, diners, and the general store were all open, as were a couple of early-morning drinking houses where shaky-handed alkies started their days and late-night gamblers finished off theirs. Following his routine of the previous couple of mornings, he checked out every place serving breakfast, and had drunk half a dozen coffees and eaten a couple of stacks of pancakes and eggs before he’d passed through them all. Still no sign of the perps.

Slightly edgy from all the coffee he had drunk, he went back to his hotel room for the rest of the morning and sat on a chair by the window reading Cole’s code book,
Dark Star
. He had started it the other day out of curiosity, and was halfway through it now, in the thick of the story.

Andre Szara, a Russian journalist and intelligence operative, had just survived an encounter in a Berlin synagogue where he’d been sent by OPAL, the shadowy organization he worked for, to meet an important contact. It was the evening of November 9, 1938,
Kristallnacht.
While in the synagogue, the building was broken into and burned down by a group of drunken Nazi supporters, and Szara narrowly escaped by climbing over the rooftops.

Though the plot was slow, the story’s realism, following the book’s protagonist through the back alleys of Belgium, Holland, France, and Germany just before the outbreak of World War Two, fascinated Brogan. In many ways it wasn’t too dissimilar to the Outzone, a pre-digital world with undercover agents manually decrypting secret transmissions and navigating a brutal landscape using a multitude of different currencies.

After the effects of the coffee wore off, Brogan felt sleepy. He closed the book and walked over to the bed where he lay down and fell asleep until one p.m.

Lunchtime was more of the same. Brogan checked out every diner, restaurant, and café, eating lunch at a Mexican burrito joint at the top of the street. Though not bad, it wasn’t as good as La Cumbre back in Winter’s Edge. Two Jacks didn’t have nearly the same level of Latino influence as Winter’s Edge, Brogan had noticed. That was reflected in the food options too. There was the burrito place and a Mexican
panedaria
where he stopped each day to pick up a couple of
pan dulces.
That was about it. Other than that, the vibe of the town was pretty much white American.

In the afternoon he traipsed up and down the Drag again, walking in and out of the bars, clubs, and casinos, eyeballing anyone that even halfway resembled the men he was looking for, and catching several hard stares for his trouble. Many of the side street bars had opened by now and he checked them out too.

Late afternoon, the skies darkened. Soon after, a thundershower came down, quickly turning the streets to mud. Frustrated, Brogan returned to his hotel room and read his book some more, staying there until evening. Around seven p.m. he went out and hit the bars again. By ten, and on his fifth bourbon, Brogan returned to the Quiver and entered the saloon.

The bar was packed and a three-piece band was playing on a stage in the back lounge when he arrived; a piano player, trumpet player, and drummer knocking out a fast tempo-ed blues number, reminding Brogan it was Friday night. Loudspeakers had been set up to either side of the stage, and at the front was a microphone stand, but no sign of a singer.

He sat down at an empty table. Presently a waitress came over, the top three buttons of her blouse undone. She leaned over the table to give him a better view, something he’d become used to in the city by now.

“What can I get you, honey?”

“I’ll have a bourbon and coke.” Brogan looked across at a couple at the next table. The woman he recognized as one of the Quiver’s regular bar girls, the man, judging from his rough appearance, Brogan guessed was a local miner. They were eating with their fingers from a large plate laden with thick wedges of some type of fish that had been fried in breadcrumbs and served with french fries. It looked good.

“And a plate of whatever they’re having,” he added. While he mightn’t be having much luck with his search, it appeared he wasn’t going to starve or go thirsty in this town.

The waitress took his order and hurried off, coming back a couple of minutes later with his drink. He sat back and watched the band. They were good, playing a set of jazz and blues standards, some of which he knew. The black trumpeter lifted his instrument high into the air each time he blew the high notes, while the pale faced, bony-wristed white dude chopped down hard on the piano keys with long skinny fingers. The drummer held it all together with a rock steady beat. A window at the back of the lounge had been left open, and between songs the low buzz of the diesel generator running the house lights and PA system could be heard.

Brogan’s food arrived just as the singer appeared on stage, a plump black woman wearing a glittering blue sequined dress, so tight it looked like she had been lowered into it by crane.

The piano started up at a jaunty tempo, while the drummer neatly worked a pair of brushes on the main drum, keeping the downbeat steady on the bass and hitting the hi-hat on the off-beat. Then the fat lady started to sing, her voice low and husky, floating across the PA like mist over water. It was an old blues song and she sang it well, her voice laden with emotion.

Well I'm rollin' and I'm tumblin'

Cried the whole night long

Well I'm rollin' and I'm tumblin'

Cried the whole night long

When I woke up this morning

Couldn't tell right from wrong

Well if the river was whiskey

And I was a diving duck

Well if the river was whiskey

And I was a diving duck

Well I would dive to the bottom

Never would I come up

Brogan smiled as he chewed on his food. Fitting words, given the company he was keeping.

The food was as good as it looked. The thick chunks of fish, fresh and perfectly salted under the batter, came with a sweet tartar sauce into which he dipped both the wedges and fries. When he finished eating, he sat back in his chair and had just pushed his plate away when a set of fingertips trailed lightly across his back. A woman showing even more cleavage than his waitress slid into the chair opposite him.

“My, what’s a handsome fellow like you doing all on your owny-oh?” a familiar face asked, speaking in a low husky tone. “Haven’t you made any friends yet?”

“Marlee, fancy meeting you here. How have you been?”

“Ah, so you know my name?”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

Marlee smiled. She touched her lip with a brightly-painted fingernail, a different but equally vibrant color to the other night. “I know…Harold told you. How naughty of him.”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I pestered him until he gave it up. I just had to know.”

Marlee threw her head back and let out a peal of laughter. “Well seeing that I’m here now, how about you pester me instead? First, why don’t you tell me your name, stranger?”

“It’s Frank. Frank Brogan.”

The waitress arrived back with the fresh drink he’d ordered. She placed it on the table, then looked at him enquiringly.

Brogan gazed over at Marlee. “You’ll stay for one?”

“Sure,” Marlee said, in her distinct low purr. “You never know what it might lead to.”

“Well…in this town, I’d say you pretty much do.”

While the waitress cleared the plates, Brogan ordered a half bottle of bourbon, more coke and ice, and another glass.

“I haven’t seen you the last couple of nights,” he said after the waitress left. “Been anywhere special?”

“Oh, I’ve been a little busy, that’s all,” the pretty little hustler said, smiling at him coyly. “So, how long will you be staying in Two Jacks?”

“A couple more days, most likely.”

“What brings you here, exactly. You a gambling man?”

Brogan shook his head. “Nope. Never had much luck gambling.”

“Who does? Though everyone tells me losing is all part of the fun.” Marlee sighed. “Guess I just don’t have any luck meeting winners.”

“Eventually the house always wins. That’s what they say.”

“In this town, I’d say that too,” Marlee answered dryly.

The waitress arrived back with their drinks. Brogan drained his glass, then poured them both a generous shot from the bottle, adding ice and a splash of coke. The two sat back and listened to the music some more. The blues lady had started on a new song, an up-tempo crowd pleaser,
Shake Your Moneymaker.
The gal sure knew how to pick her songs.

“How long have you been in Two Jacks?” Brogan asked Marlee when the song ended.

“A couple of years now. Keep meaning to leave, just never quite managed to pack my bags yet.” She looked across at him. “I couldn’t tell you why, so don’t bother asking. Got no Plan B, I suppose.”

“Guess not. You must have gotten friendly with all the regulars by now, right?”

Marlee eyed him coolly, then took a sip from her drink. “Sure, I know most of their faces. Why?”

There was a question Brogan was probing at, but he’d put it the wrong way. He realized he was quite drunk now. Inside his mouth, his tongue felt thick, and he was unable to stop his voice from slurring as he spoke.

“Just wondering about the different people that come here, that’s all…it’s my first time,” he added weakly.

Marlee gave a shrug of her delicate shoulders. “People come and go. Some of them come back for more. Don’t really know what else to tell you.”

Brogan changed the topic, and they talked some more over the music. The usual stuff; where they were when the war broke out, how they survived it, and what brought them to the Outzone.

Brogan lied about his recent past, though not the soldiering part, and presumed that Marlee had done likewise. She told him that when the bombings on US soil first began, she had been a legal secretary in Delaware. Somehow he couldn’t quite picture her, primly dressed, behind an office desk at some law firm. Who knew? Maybe it was true. Years of war had brought out the rawness in everyone. People had changed, one way or another.

After some time the band stopped for their first break of the evening. To a smatter of applause the singer bowed and stepped off the stage, heading toward a side door on the right, followed by the trio of musicians. As she passed a table, a man drunkenly reached out and raised his hand up high, theatrically slapping her on the rear. In the process, he knocked over a bottle of whiskey and the glasses in front of him, and a ripple of laughter went around the room.

Brogan turned to Marlee. She stared back at him with an expectant air, the trace of a smile on her lips. A well-practiced look, he was sure. Amid a clutter of swirling thoughts, a cogent one suddenly came to Brogan. Something that actually made sense.

“Seeing as the fat lady’s finished singing for the moment, how about we take the conversation upstairs?” he said. “Maybe you could sing to me in my room.”

Marlee smiled. “I’d like that. I can sing all night if you want.”

Brogan looked around the room and caught the waitress’s eye. A few minutes later he paid the bill, then followed Marlee through the maze of tables and over to the side door the band had passed through earlier.

It led into a small anteroom. In one corner, the band members sat around a table drinking beers and smoking. They glanced up briefly when they entered. Marlee strode across the room to the far end, where there was another door. She opened it and beckoned for Brogan to follow her inside.

It led into a poorly lit passageway. Peering down it, Brogan could see it wasn’t part of the building’s original design. It appeared to have been attached to the exterior back wall as an afterthought. A couple of feet above his head was a sloping tin roof, and as he stepped inside, a gust of wind blew through the rafters and swept through his hair.

So this is what the Working Ladies Union of Two Jacks pushed for
, Brogan thought drunkenly to himself, remembering Harold’s comment from the other night.

The floor of the passageway looked like it hadn’t been swept in months, and at one point Brogan kicked a discarded bottle, sending it spinning noisily along the ground in front of him.

“Easy there, stud,” Marlee murmured.

After twenty yards they passed a windowless door to their left that Brogan guessed must lead out into a yard. A short time later they reached another corridor, where to his left he recognized the door leading out to the parking lot, the one he had come in by when he first arrived. They turned right and a short time later arrived at the back of the hotel lobby.