“It’s my business to know things. I know religion and mythology and belief the way that others know the sun rises in the east. And I know you have one more door to open.” He motions past her, to the far left corner of the bar. Tracy follows his gaze and spies the same door that had shocked her before.
“I couldn’t open it,” she says softly.
“You weren’t ready then. Your memories had faded, nearly all of them. But now you have some of your life back—enough, at least, to understand the judgment that will be delivered. One more door, Tracy Summers, and then you’ll finally arrive at your destination.”
One more door. The last door.
Tracy bites her lip as she stares at the exit. It’s backlit, as if something waits beyond it other than darkness. “Where ... where will it lead?”
“Either Heaven or Hell,” Gil says, clearly indifferent. “You’ll find out when you go through.”
The possibility of being someplace worse than the darkness with its infinite doors makes her dizzy with terror. Horrified, she whispers, “No.”
After a long moment, Gil says idly, “There is another option.”
She turns to face him, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Stay here,” says Gil. At first, Tracy thinks he is offering her sanctuary, but then Gil continues. “You would be the new owner. This bar would be yours, forever. You’d be human once more, and immortal. And that would spare you from ever meeting your end.”
As his words sink in, her eyes widen with hope, or fear, or some combination of the two.
“Think of it, Tracy Summers.” Gil’s eyes are shining with a passion she’d seen before, many times, in Paul’s eyes. “You would hold any role here you wish: bartender, hostess, manager.” Gil grins, a knife-like flash of humor. “Bouncer. Whatever you want, it would be yours. But only here, in the bar, in whatever guise it assumes.”
She considers his words. Here, forever. Safe.
She can feel the door beckoning to her, begging to be opened.
“Take over my duties,” says Gil, “and you never need worry about doors again.”
Tracy knows there’s more he’s not telling her—that bit about the bar assuming guises hadn’t escaped her— but even so, the offer is compelling. She’d been trapped in what she’d believed to be Hell for a long, long time. The last thing she wants is to be trapped somewhere even worse . . . because in her heart, she knows that the bad thing she’d done so long ago has tainted her soul.
Some people will do anything to escape consequences, Gil said. And others will make sure they’re bound by the same.
Gil’s words spark an idea, one that quickly catches hold. Maybe . . . maybe she’s wrong about the bad thing. She’d been young when she’d done—or hadn’t done—whatever it was. That much, she’s sure of. Maybe she had misremembered the event from the start.
Or not.
She could still wind up in Hell. She knows this.
But there’s a chance—a slim one, maybe, but still a chance—that she could go to Heaven.
And assuredly, when his time came, Paul would join her there.
She worries her lip, and she understands that if she stays here in Gil’s bar, she would never see Paul again, other than in her dreams.
And like that, she makes her choice. It’s a long shot; in her heart, she doesn’t think she’s worthy of Heaven. But if there’s even the slightest possibility that she and Paul could be together again one day....
“Thank you,” she says quickly, before she can change her mind, “but I’ll open the door.”
The look on Gil’s face tells her he’s not surprised. In his own way, he’s as resigned as she had been in the dark. “Go on, then,” he says, all business. He grabs her empty glass and wipes down the spot where it had rested. “Your fate awaits.”
She wishes she had some money to tip him, but as Gil had guessed before, she has nothing on her; she barely has a solid form. “Thank you,” she says, meaning it. He’d helped her remember parts of a life that had been cast in shadow. He’d given her Paul’s name, his face, the memory of his kiss. He’d given her the hope that one day, she and Paul would be together once more.
For all of that, she is grateful.
Perhaps Gil hears that in her words, for he looks up at her. He doesn’t smile; he is once again the intimidating presence behind the bar that she had first glimpsed when she’d arrived. But he meets her gaze and says, “Good luck, little ghost.”
She stands up and weaves her way past the clusters of wooden booths filled with distorted patrons, heading toward the door. With every step, the chatter around her becomes less audible until there is only silence; the distinctive odors of the tavern fade to nothing. The colors, too, wash away, until she is once again in darkness.
Tracy Summers stands before the Door of Judgment, and she is unafraid. A taste lingers on her lips—the memory of a drink, the whisper of a kiss. With that taste comes a name, his name: her true love, her Paul, whom she misses and longs for and hopes to one day see again.
Hell may wait for her, yes. But Heaven, too, may be waiting.
This time, it’s the right door. The last door. And hopefully one day, she’ll be there, waiting for him, holding her hand out to him, ready to wrap her arms around him and love him.
Tracy Summers takes a breath she doesn’t need, opens the door, and steps through with a smile.
IZDU-BAR
Anton Strout
THE near constant buzz from the outer doors shot into Bouncer Billy’s brain like the heavy drill of a hangover, which was a goddamned shame because the big guy was nursing one already. From his stool sitting at the bar, he prayed it would stop on its own, hoping one of those plague monstrosities had triggered it by accident as they wandered in from the Wastes. Billy ignored it for a few more seconds, tugging at his scraggly beard and long unkempt hair in frustration, but it didn’t stop. The damned walking dead weren’t known for their fine motor skills so it was clearly a problem that he’d have to get his ass up to deal with.
Billy hefted his considerable frame off his stool, adjusting his gut where the leather of his belt had been digging in before heading off toward the elaborate door system at the front of the establishment. Whoever was laying on the buzzer tonight was going to catch shit once Billy got them to stop . . . and they stood a fat chance in hell of gaining entrance into the bar at this time of night, not after lockdown.
The inner wooden doors of the bar were easy enough to unlock but the heft of them had Billy opening only one just far enough to squeeze his girth through. A small vestibule opened up past them with a set of thicker steel doors blocking his path beyond that. Billy slammed the wooden doors closed behind him and locked them again using the electronic plate set into them. The empty space between the doors echoed even louder with the sound of the incessant buzzing. Billy swore under his breath and pulled back the metal plate of the peephole in the outer door, first making sure to step back from it. One-Eyed Steve had made that mistake once, and, well ... that’s why Billy called him One-Eyed Steve now, wasn’t it? Bouncer Billy was more than happy to keep his own nickname as it was, thank-you-very-much. It spoke of nothing born of mutilation and that was alright in his book.
Once the plate was open, the ringing blissfully stopped. He peered out the slit into the descending dusk of the Wastes, the floodlights high up on the exterior of the bar already kicking in, lighting up the land nearby. A sky of dark clouds threatened to open up over the vast plain stretching into the horizon. Huddled against the door was a lone figure with straw blonde hair, pale blue eyes and a hefty pack of worldly possessions strapped across his back.
“Sorry,” Billy said, reaching for the pull on the steel shutter. “Full up.”
“Hey!” the stranger said. “Wait!”
Billy laughed, relishing the cruelty in his voice. “Should have thought of that before riding the buzzer like you did, pal.”
“Are you serious?” the stranger asked, his eyes widening in d
isbelief. “It’s dangerous out here tonight. The brain munchers are out in full force. Just let me in.”
Brain munchers, Billy thought. He liked that. Almost made those monstrosities seem like something he’d want to meet. “Full up,” Billy repeated and started to slide the plate shut.
“Hold on,” the stranger said, agitated. His hand flew up to the long slit of the peephole, his fingers jamming into the space, preventing Billy from closing it all the way.
Billy grabbed up a cleaver that hung on a length of steel chain just to the side of the steel door, raising it up for the stranger to see. “Move ’em or lose ’em,” he said, brandishing the blade. “I’m going to be right pissed off to get blood on my biker leathers, but I’ll do it, I swear.”
The stranger pounded on the door with his other hand. “You are not going to leave me out here, man, are you?” the stranger asked. “I’ve avoided those monsters all day. If you leave me out here now, after sundown, I’m as good as dead.”
Billy shrugged. “Not my problem,” he said. Billy raised the cleaver, taking aim at the stranger’s hand. One clean swipe and the stranger’s little piggies would come off clean right at the second knuckle. Laughter erupted in Billy’s throat as “This Little Piggy” went running through his head. Billy brought the cleaver down in a powerful arc.
The stranger cried out and turned away, exposing his back. A long wrapped object poked up out of the man’s pack. Billy paused his swing and looked at the fingers still holding on to the edge of the peephole. The tips of them poked out of the stranger’s half-glove. The nails were trimmed and the fingers callused, but only at the very tips of them. Billy looked back out the peephole at the stranger and his pack.
A familiar itch rose at the back of his brain. It was the visceral itch of opportunity presenting itself, one that Billy had felt before, and it was one that Billy had learned not to ignore ... not since the world had changed, anyway.
“Is that a guitar on your back?” Billy asked.
The stranger smiled. “You noticed it, eh?” he asked. “You play?”
Billy shook his head. “Me? Nah, but I do know the value of an intact one these days. You got strings on that thing?”
“A fair question,” the stranger said. “I got lucky. I found an assload of stock at an abandoned Guitar Center just outside Albany a few weeks back. You let me in these doors, and I’ll play. I’ll play for the whole damn bar if it gets me off the Wastes.” Thunder rolled out on the plain and the stranger turned his head. Off in the distance, lightning filled the sky. “If I don’t get this guitar inside before this storm hits, the neck is gonna warp and a scarcity of strings won’t be the issue any longer, mister. I don’t have any money on me, but I can play something fierce.”
Billy felt the itch at the back of his brain increase. A musician at the door after lockdown. Billy’s pulse quickened. “Alright,” he said. Gil might not like letting him in this time of night, but screw the boss. Music means more money for the bar. He unlocked the outer door and smiled with his incomplete set of yellowed teeth before waving him in. “Looks like your lucky night, mister.”
“Guess so,” the stranger said, hurrying into the vestibule. “Thanks.”
Billy stared down at the stranger, nearly a head taller than the wiry blond, and then set about relocking the outer door without another word. When he finished with it, Billy checked it twice, then turned to the stranger.
“Now, lissen,” he said. “You performing here is going to be between you and Gil, and if you do, you’re gonna get some tips from the crowd. Understand right now that half of that is going to go to me, got it?”
“What?” the stranger said. “I thought the days of cover charges were over.”
“There’s no cover charge,” Billy said, “but if you want me to let you in from the Wastes, that’s the price.” The stranger looked distraught, which only made Billy’s blood rise. “Look. I was ready to cut your fingers off a second ago. You think I give a crap about leaving you out there?”
“I’m not going to make it to another way station tonight,” the stranger said, and then sighed. “Fine.”
“And let’s keep this between you and me,” Billy added. “Let’s consider it the cost of me risking the boss’s wrath even letting you in after lockdown. Unless you want me to send you out with those goddamned zombie bastards again?”
The stranger looked pissed, but Billy just kept staring him down until the guy finally managed to calm himself.
“I’m Wade,” the stranger said, offering his hand. Billy took it, and shook it. The guy had a strong grip, good for a guitarist.
Billy turned and punched the combination into the inner door keypad. He waited for the light to go from red to green, then pushed open the double wooden doors, giving the stranger his first view of the interior. “Welcome to Izdu-Bar,” Billy said.
The bouncer watched the stranger closely as he stepped into the bar. The disappointment on the man’s face was almost pleasing to him, although truth be told, Billy thought the place looked even more dingy than it had just a few minutes ago despite how crowded it was. And when the hell did Gil find one of those ancient and well-worn Ms. Pac-Man machines sitting off on the left? Billy certainly didn’t recall there being an entire row of dartboards along another wall, either. As he tried to remember, the guy gave a low whistle.
“Well, I’ve played worse,” the stranger said. “But not much worse.”
“I could let you back out,” Billy offered. “Speak now before I lock it down.”
It looked to Billy like the guy might actually be contemplating heading back out into the Wastes, which would ruin Billy’s plans. If the guy left, there would be no way to roll him for that guitar of his later.
“No,” he said, after a moment’s consideration. “I’ll stay.”
Billy slammed the wooden doors shut behind him, checking the lock once he heard it all click into place. “How lucky for us,” he said, pushing past the guy. “Come with me.”
Billy walked the stranger over to the bar along the front right corner of the room where he knew Gil would be. The stranger followed Billy, dragging his feet as he looked around at the quiet, miserable crowd that already seemed hard at work drowning their sorrows. Billy approached his curly dark-haired boss who was busy stroking his well-trimmed beard and looking out over the crowd with concern before his eyes settled on the two of them.
“Good evening, William,” he said.
William. Billy shuddered. The utterance of his proper name was enough to make him uncomfortable. If the boss wasn’t the first guy to not fire him in a long time, Billy would have punched him in the face for sounding so fruity. He suppressed the urge and focused on the itch at the back of his brain again. “You in a good mood or not, Gil?”
Gil gave the stranger a wary glance, and then narrowed his gray-green eyes at Billy. It was enough to make the bouncer look away in discomfort. “Why do I think that’s going to depend on what you’re going to ask me, William?”
“Just checking, boss,” he said. “If you’re in a good mood that usually means the crowd’s in a good mood, too.”
Billy didn’t dare bring up what happened around the bar when Gil was in a bad mood. When the boss was miserable, the place seemed little more than a working class swill hole and that always brought everyone in the place down. Those nights became unbearable and finding the comforting of a good woman—or at least a good drunk woman—was near impossible, especially if he couldn’t earn the money for her, thanks to a slow night.
“Am I in a good mood?” Gil asked, looking out over the crowd assembled in the great room of the bar. His face didn’t brighten. “I’m not sure. We’ve got a full house. But then again, we’ve had a full house every night since the walking dead took over the nighttime world out there. Can’t say it’s going to be a thrilling night for folks in here. Don’t suspect I’ll be pulling too much from the taps, unless these fine people are looking to deepen their depression a little more.” Gil picked
up a rag from underneath the bar and wiped the top of it, bringing the old wood to a fine polish.
Billy’s heart rose. The taste of opportunity practically filled his mouth.
“Got a little something for you then, boss. I know we’re full up, but I just let this guy in—”
Gil looked up at Billy. His boss looked pissed, a dark fire in his eyes. “You know the rules,” Gil said, his voice sharp. “We lock down for the night. No one comes in, no one goes out, at least not until sunrise when they can see those damn monstrosities coming.”
“But—”
“No exceptions,” Gil said.
The stranger held up his hand. “Can I ask why?”
“As William mentioned, we’re full up,” the barkeep said, going back to cleaning the bar. “I have rules to keep order around here and if there’s one thing this modern world needs, it is order. It keeps the people in here safe.”
“What do you want me to do, boss?” Billy asked. “Throw the guy back out there?” Billy felt the itch at the back of his brain slowly fading, but he refused to give up. “You’ll like him, I swear. This guy’s a musician.”
Gil paused mid-polish and looked up at the stranger, and then to Billy. A wry smile crossed his face. “Playing on my weak spot, I see.”
“I know what you like, boss,” Billy said, laying it on thick.
Gil gave Billy a stern look. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with you hoping to pull down a little extra money . . . and we know how you’d end up spending it, don’t we?”
“Hehe . . . yeah, well, that’s my business now, isn’t it?”
Gil just shook his head at Billy. “I suppose it is, William. I’ve certainly seen worse happen in here over the years, much worse than a little paid companionship.”
Billy gave a deep throaty laugh that turned into a cough. “Truth be told, stranger,” he said. “I was ready to leave you out on the Wastes, fingerless at our doors.”
Gil tsk-tsked him. “That’s not very nice, William.”
After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar Page 25
