Evergreen (Book 5): The Nuclear Frontier

by Cox, Matthew S.

  Cliff paid the women only enough attention to offer a polite nod on the way by. Logan said, “Hi,” without looking at them. Ken grinned, allowing himself a moment to take in the view.

  Harper stuffed the key in her pocket, then pulled the Mossberg from the lime green nylon sheath. The prostitutes fell quiet, staring at her until she slung it over her shoulder. She didn’t bother saying anything like ‘relax, don’t want to leave it out here,’ nor did she make eye contact with them on her way through the door. It annoyed her they didn’t react with any worry or concern to the men pulling their rifles. Perhaps she unintentionally gave off territorial jealousy regarding Logan they sensed.

  The Mushroom Cloud Saloon stank of strong alcohol, fried meat, and cigarette smoke. Scraps of linoleum paths and bland beige-grey carpet revealed the layout of a former sporting goods store converted into a bizarre approximation of an 1800s-era saloon. They’d turned the former glass sales counter into a bar, and cleared out the rest of the space of shelves and displays. A rickety-looking stairway—clearly not built by a professional—led to a door on the second floor bearing a sign advertising rooms for rent.

  This is so weird.

  Square tables filled most of the room, several hosting active card games or people rolling dice. Gamblers appeared to be placing wagers using pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters… and even a credit card or two, using them like poker chips.

  “Hmm, they’re off script,” muttered Cliff.

  “Huh?” Harper glanced at him.

  “Bunch of outsiders just stepped into the town’s biggest bar. Everyone’s supposed to stop and stare at us like we walked into the wrong place.” He grinned. “Feels like any other bar back in the normal world… except for no crappy music playing.”

  “Wow, they’ve even got a piano.” Ken pointed.

  Harper looked over at a small group standing in the back by an upright piano. It had definitely seen better days, but appeared functional. Wow, they’re going all out. Shelves behind the bar held rows and rows of mason jars containing clear liquid. That’s not water, is it? She cringed. Great. Moonshine. Or fuel. Maybe we should bring some of it back for Rafael to put in his engine. “That’s moonshine, isn’t it?”

  “Probably,” said Cliff.

  “Feel like having a drink?” Logan playfully elbowed her.

  “Not unless I need to strip paint off a car.” Cliff winced.

  “Uhh, pass,” whispered Harper. “Don’t want to go blind.”

  A door at the back of the room swung open as a short, skinny Hispanic girl butt-bumped it out of her way while backing into view carrying a large serving tray. Her dress appeared to be made out of fabric scavenged from at least nine different other garments. Fortunately, she didn’t have a graphic in an unfortunate place. While her face, arms, and hair were clean, the dress looked as if its former owner had been used as a giant Q-tip to clean out several old chimneys.

  She walked with her head down, eyes hidden behind hair.

  Logan squeezed Harper’s arm. “That’s her.”

  “Wow… she looks younger than fifteen.” Her heart raced from joy and relief.

  “Yeah, she’s like Mom. Real small.” Logan wiped a tear.

  Harper nudged him. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Her to put the tray down so she doesn’t drop it when she sees me.” Logan laughed nervously.

  As soon as she set the serving tray on a table by two men, Logan called out, “Luisa?”

  The girl jumped, spinning as if in response to a firecracker going off. She snapped her head up to look across the room. After a few seconds of staring at Logan, all the strength appeared to melt out of her body. She collapsed to her knees, sobbing into her hands. Logan sprinted over to her.

  “What the hell are you doin’ here?” bellowed a man behind Harper.

  Oh, shit. Here we go. Hoping it hadn’t been directed at their group, since no one in this town could possibly know them, she twisted to look.

  Three men had apparently come from a table by the front window, and—for no obvious reason—decided to have a problem with Harper’s group. All wore not-quite Old West attire of the recently handmade variety. Each man had a revolver strapped to their hip and the somewhat wobbly posture of mild drunkenness. The shortest looked about twenty, his black hair cut close, nearly shaved. His friends both had to be past thirty, but not by much. A tall blond guy in the middle sported a beard down to his belt buckle, over a rounded belly probably emblazoned with a ‘body by Budweiser’ tattoo above the navel. The third guy teetered the most, his sorta-clean-shaven face so cut up, Harper wondered if he’d tried to shave using a weed whacker or maybe attempted to tongue-kiss an angry honey badger.

  She’d seen similar situations more than enough back home at the Brewery. These men had enough booze to get a bad case of the stupids, but not so much they couldn’t walk. Subconsciously, she fell into militia mode, widening her stance and getting ready to defuse a barfight while being ready to dodge a punch.

  “What are you rattling on about?” asked Cliff, sounding unimpressed.

  Beer Belly Blond pointed at Ken. “You damn Chinese what nuked us. Got a lotta damn nerve showin’ up around here.”

  Harper fumed, from calm to furious in an instant. An image of Jonathan’s tearful eyes filled her thoughts. His parents had been killed by idiots like this who blamed Chinese people for what happened.

  Shit. So much for this being a quick and easy trip.

  26

  The Mushroom Cloud

  The bar fell silent—even Luisa stopped crying.

  Ken glared, though his expression conveyed more a sense of ‘here we go again’ than anger.

  Harper clutched the nylon strap holding the Mossberg to her back, not sure what to do with it if the situation escalated to violence. Would people here wait to shoot her until after she fired, or would they riddle her with bullets for simply using the shotgun as a club? Hammering a dude over the head for being a racist mouth-breather might be gratifying, but also, excessive. A shotgun—fired or swung—wasn’t the proper response to drunk idiots simply running their mouths… unless she faced a three on one situation and feared for her life.

  She couldn’t toss it aside either. Someone would surely steal it and run off. Couldn’t get into a fight with it hanging on one shoulder either. One of the idiots would grab it. Her backpack got in the way of lifting the strap over her head to her left shoulder so the weapon hung more securely across her back.

  No choice. Can’t let this turn into a fight.

  Harper let the Mossberg slip off her shoulder, swinging it around into a two-handed grip, keeping it aimed in a neutral direction—more or less—in hopes people didn’t think she intended to shoot anyone.

  The short guy, closest to her, raised a hand. “Easy, girlie. No need for that.”

  “Not planning on using it.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Unless someone threatens my friend… or calls me ‘girlie’ a second time.”

  A collective ‘ooh’ came from the patrons, making Harper feel like she’d gone right back to high school.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I quite heard you boys right.” Cliff stepped toward the three men, head slightly bowed. “Are my ears playing tricks on me or did you just say you’ve got the smallest dick in the room?” He lifted his head, staring the taller man in the eye.

  “That ain’t what I said, you moron.” The blond guy glowered. “Who in the hell you think you are, and why you getting’ all agitated over a damn Chinese?”

  “Me?” Cliff folded his arms. “I’m just a retired mall cop who thinks you’re about 150 years too late to use the term ‘a Chinese.’”

  The man with all the scratches and scabs on his face leaned back, eyes widening for no obvious reason.

  “Mall cop huh?” asked the blond guy. “Just what the hell you think you’re gonna do here, shake your keys at me?”

  Logan walked up on Harper’s left side, staring defiantly at the men.

>   Cliff offered an insincere smile. “Figured I’d start off by asking you politely to apologize to my friend here, but something tells me you’d probably laugh. From there, we move on to firmly applying your face repetitively to any nearby hard object until you have one of those epiphany moments.”

  “You talk pretty big for a mall cop.” The blond man made a ‘come here’ gesture with both hands. “Let’s see what you got.”

  “Hey!” yelled a middle-aged black man behind the bar. “No fighting inside. Brian, knock that shit off.”

  “Oh, wasn’t planning on fighting.” Cliff’s smile turned sincere. “Fight implies a contest. I’d just be taking out some trash.”

  “Uhh, come on, guys,” said the scratched man. “Let’s go drink somewhere else.”

  Brian, the tall blond beer-bellied guy, backhand whacked Scratchy on the arm. “The hell you turn chickenshit all of a sudden, Cyrus? Desmond ain’t gonna invoke rule six on us over no nuclear Chinese sonofabitch.”

  “Wow, you really are a total asshole,” said Harper.

  Ken set his hands on his hips, shaking his head. “Can’t even debate stupid of this magnitude. Look, just go have another drink. We’ll be gone before you even realize.”

  “Not bein’ a chickenshit, Brian.” Cyrus pointed at Cliff’s left forearm. “Dude’s an Army Ranger.”

  “So?” asked the short guy. “That’s all Hollywood BS.”

  “Best get your stunt double ready,” said Cliff.

  Desmond, the bartender, grabbed a bolt-action rifle off the wall behind him. “Warnin’ you boys.”

  Brian’s swagger lessened ever so slightly. He glanced sideways at the bar, then glared at Cliff. “Why are you helping the damn Chinese? They nuked us to hell.”

  “I should slit your throat for being a Russian.” Cliff unfolded his arms, letting them fall at his sides.

  “You son of a…” Brian took a swing.

  Cliff caught him by the arm, swinging him around and drilling him face first into a nearby table, knocking a candle jar over and sending several forks, knives, and spoons crashing to the floor. The surprisingly loud whud of face-on-wood and subsequent clatter of silverware brought the room to silence.

  Desmond pointed his rifle at them. The short guy lunged at Cliff from behind. Harper intercepted, blocking him with the Mossberg sideways across his chest and sweeping his leg, putting him on the floor. Scratched-up-face guy, Cyrus, took a step, but stopped in his tracks when Ken merely leaned toward him. Logan rushed to stand between the short man and Harper.

  “You ain’t no Russian?” asked Cliff, a hint of growl in his voice as he squished Brian’s cheek into the table by a fistful of hair. “Could’a fooled me. You look just like them. White skin. Blonde hair.”

  Brian shoved himself up. Lacking the strength to keep the larger man pinned, Cliff shifted into a throw, sending the big guy tumbling into a heap. Desmond kept his rifle pointed at Cliff.

  “Aim at him.” Harper nodded at Brian. “He threw the first punch.”

  “Brian missed.” Desmond continued aiming at Cliff.

  Harper trained her Mossberg on the bartender. “Doesn’t matter. He initiated the fight. I don’t care what happens to me. If you shoot my Dad, your head is going to be all over that wall. Ever see what buckshot does to a human skull at sixteen feet?”

  About eleven people drew revolvers and aimed at Harper. She narrowed her eyes. Inside, she wanted to throw up from fear, knowing she’d never survive opening fire on the bartender. Her life had never before hung on a thread as thin as two millimeters of trigger pull. She kept her face steely, confident acting indifferent to death would prevent anyone needing to pull a trigger. Desmond stared at her in disbelief, then nervousness, then fear. He lowered the rifle.

  Harper lowered her shotgun.

  A bunch of seemingly disappointed locals put their revolvers away.

  Okay. I don’t like this town. They are way too eager to shoot people.

  “Ugh.” Brian rolled over to sit. “I ain’t no damn Russian. Do I freakin’ sound like I’m speakin’ Russian to you, dumbass?”

  “And he ain’t no ‘damn Chinese.’ He’s an American.” Cliff thrust an arm toward Ken. “Is he speaking Chinese?”

  “I don’t even know Mandarin or Cantonese,” said Ken. “I was born in Colorado. My parents and grandparents were all born in Colorado.”

  “C’mon, Bri.” Cyrus jabbed a thumb at the door. “Ain’t worth it. This gonna get real ugly real fast. That li’l redhead there’s straight up psycho.”

  “Psycho is a dozen people muttering in annoyance because they didn’t get to shoot a teenage girl,” snapped Logan. “What the hell is wrong with you all?”

  “Them people’s carryin’ guns all the time, gives ’em a powerful itch ta use it,” said an older guy at a table close to the wall on the left.

  “Doubt it.” Harper slung the Mossberg over her shoulder. “I’ve been carrying this howitzer for a year now, and the last thing I want to do is have to use it.”

  Ken offered Brian a hand. “One, I’m not nationally Chinese. Two, we don’t even know who hit us.”

  The big guy stood without accepting Ken’s help. He didn’t much look at him either, heading for the exit while grumbling incoherently.

  He’s going to be a problem later. Harper crouched to pick up the candle jar Cliff knocked over.

  Desmond replaced his rifle on the wall mount behind him.

  “What the hell is rule six?” asked Cliff, approaching the bar.

  “The proprietor of any bar, motel, or brothel is legally allowed to shoot anyone they deem a threat to the peace due to violence.” Desmond leaned on the former sales counter. “Basically, someone starts a fight, I can pop them.”

  Cliff pointed at the rifle behind the bartender. “You might want something a little less spicy than a .30-06. That’ll go right through a man and hit someone else.”

  Logan hurried to the rear of the room, where Luisa crouched behind a square column still marked with ‘bargain’ stickers from when the place had been a sporting goods store. Harper figured it safe to leave Cliff unsupervised with the bartender, so she followed.

  “You okay?” Logan brushed at her cheek. “Look a bit strung out.”

  Luisa bowed her head. “Nightmares. I wake up two or three times a night. It’s hard for me to sleep.”

  “C’mere.” He beckoned her closer.

  “What happened to you, Lo?” Luisa stood and hugged him. “Not here five minutes and you’re almost getting shot.”

  Harper folded her arms. “He honestly had nothing at all to do with that.”

  “Who’s this?” Luisa glanced at her.

  “This is Harper. My girlfriend.” Logan couldn’t quite make eye contact with either of them. “She’s the one who found your name in the notebook and suggested I write.”

  Luisa blinked. “You didn’t want to?”

  “Everyone we ran into said Springs was vaporized. Like completely evaporated.” Logan pulled his sister into a hug. “I thought you were gone already. Couldn’t deal if it had been someone else, same name.”

  “It’s not totally gone,” said Luisa in a near whisper. “Real bad, though. Houses were on fire for days around us, but everything else is flat.”

  “Wow. Lucky.” Harper raised both eyebrows.

  Logan took a few calming breaths. “The hills… we lived on Seven Oaks Drive. Popes Bluffs is right behind the house. It must have shielded our neighborhood from the worst of it. Wasn’t sure where the blast came from. Popes would’ve only shielded the house if it went off to the northeast.”

  “Like eight or nine houses in each direction were still standing.” Luisa stared down. “Past that, it’s all gone. Just open holes in the ground. Like the wind blew the houses away. When the Express guy handed me the letter, I couldn’t stop crying for a whole day. I thought you died in Denver.”

  “Whoa,” whispered Harper. How is this girl not glowing? She looks half-starved but not like
she’s irradiated. She wouldn’t still be alive if she got a big dose… and her hair is way too long to have lost it and grown it back.

  They stood in silence for a few minutes, Logan and Luisa holding each other. He tried to speak a few times but couldn’t find a voice. Finally, he managed a weak, “How did you get out?”

  “You know how Ma always woke up at the butt crack of dawn?”

  Logan nodded.

  “She heard on the news about bombs going off in New York and Washington DC. She woke me and Papa up and we sheltered in the basement. The house kinda collapsed on top of us. We got a little banged up, but just some cuts and scratches. Papa wouldn’t let us leave the basement. We stayed there for a couple days until the bottled water ran out. He started scavenging for food. When he got too sick to go outside, Ma took over.” Luisa broke into tears, resting her head against Logan’s shoulder. “They had all these cuts. Papa fell and broke his arm outside. I think it got infected. I don’t even know how long it was after the blast… woke up and Papa was dead. He lost all his hair and got so skinny.”

  The emotional knife of hearing this girl talk about watching her father die stabbed too close to home. Tears streamed down Harper’s face.

  Luisa took a moment to collect herself back from a sobbing wreck. “Ma… I think she knew but she acted like he was only sleeping. She got sicker and sicker, I think from the radiation. Stopped eating. She wanted to save the cans for me. I told her to eat but she wouldn’t. Then, she didn’t wake up one day… I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Luisa…” Logan wept too hard to speak.

  “I ate one can a day. Didn’t go outside ’cause I was scared of the radiation. Stayed there with Ma and Papa, talking to them. I knew they were watching me.”