by James Cook
But first, I had work to do.
Just past sundown, I finished reconnoitering and headed toward one of the less sleazy-looking taverns on the south side of town. The tavern was, like most other buildings in town, built entirely of rough-hewn wooden planks. Asphalt shingles on the roof, shutters over glassless windows, and the light of oil lanterns burning within. Under other circumstances, the place might have looked inviting. But between the listless, jaded, scantily-clad whores out front, the leering, lascivious men they catcalled with insincere enthusiasm, and the shaved gorilla standing by the door with a shotgun in his hands, there was not the faintest presence of hospitality or charm.
As I approached, I noticed that while the men fondling and negotiating prices with the prostitutes were permitted on the wide porch, they stayed well clear of the doorway and the massive, armed man standing next to it. Figuring he was there for a reason, I stopped a few feet away and nodded to him.
“Looking for a room and a hot meal,” I said.
He gave me a quick up and down appraisal before grunting, turning his head, and firing an impressive arc of spittle to his right. “Place ain’t cheap, but we got the nicest rooms and cleanest girls in Blackmire. Fresh food, pre-Outbreak whiskey, the whole nine. What you got for trade?”
I patted my weapon. “Spare rounds. Maybe a few other things.”
His eyes took in the loaded mag carriers on my vest and the sword hanging from my hip. “I reckon so. Come on in, then. Head for the bar and talk to Slim. He’ll set you up.”
I nodded once and stepped through the door. The tavern’s interior was a wide dining room with a collection of wooden tables and chairs, a staircase, a balcony that covered three walls, and tightly spaced doors lining the second floor which, I assumed, were the guest rooms. There were maybe a dozen or so people sitting at the tables, some of them in various states of drunkenness, others eating silently, and a few playing exceptionally loud games of chance. All the place needed was a guy in shirtsleeves and a waistcoat playing a piano in the corner, and the effect would have been complete.
At the bar, I was greeted by a tall, reedy bartender with a perfectly bald head, close-set, hostile little eyes, and a nose that looked to have been broken with a frying pan, reset, allowed to heal, and then broken again. I nodded to him as he approached. “You Slim?”
“Last I checked. What can I do for you?”
“Need a room.”
“How long you staying?”
“Not sure. Couple of days maybe.”
“What are you trading?”
I pulled a P-mag from its carrier and held it up. “Thirty rounds, five-five-six. I keep the mag. How long will that get me?”
He ran his tongue across his teeth and appeared to consider it. “Let’s say…ten rounds a night. That’ll get you a room and one meal per day. Drinks are extra.”
“How about four?”
The bartender chuckled. “Fella, that won’t even get you a lice-ridden cot in the bunkhouse. We’ll call it nine.”
“Six.”
“Eight.”
“Seven. Final offer.”
Slim tapped his fingers on the bar, faking an inner debate. I knew for a fact seven rounds was a fair price, and I could tell he was a little disappointed I was not proving easy to fleece. “Fine,” he said finally. “Seven a night. But you pay every day in the morning, in advance. And since you’re too late for supper, I’ll let you have tonight for six. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
I removed the P-mag’s dust cover and counted out the necessary cartridges. “Tell you what,” Slim said, pointing at the magazine. “Those are pretty popular around here. Hard to find. You part ways with that one, and I’ll let you have a night with any one of my girls you want.”
I stared at him, trying very hard not to let disgust show on my face. It would have been extremely satisfying to grab him by the throat and introduce his face to the surface of the bar. But I had a cover to maintain, so I kept it in. “No thanks. Like you said, these things are hard to find.”
“You sure about that?” he asked, an avaricious sparkle in his eyes. “These girls are well trained. You can have nice hot bath, a massage, and then they’ll do whatever you want them to.”
I shook my head again, feeling my temper begin to rise and struggling to keep my voice level. “Sorry. Pass. It’s cheaper to jerk off, and I don’t have to worry about cock-rot.”
His beady eyes narrowed a bit. “You got a problem with girls, or something?”
I leaned forward, lowered my voice, and twisted my face into a sneering, licentious grin. “Let’s just say my tastes run to the…exotic. The girl wouldn’t be much use to you by the time I got done with her.”
Looking at me, Slim paled and took half a nervous step back. When he spoke, there was a tremor in his voice. “Well…all right then. Just, uh, let me know if you change your mind. Offer stands.” His hand shook a little as he handed me my room key.
“One last thing,” I said, reaching into my pocket and taking out an MRE pack of compressed toilet paper. Slim’s gaze locked to it instantly, calculating its worth. “I’m looking for someone. Goes by the name Marco. Medium height and build, brown eyes, longish hair, bushy beard. Seen anybody like that around?”
“This must be your first time in this town, my friend. Everybody knows Marco. He’s Tribune Blackmire’s right hand man. Carries out his business for him, collects taxes, that sort of thing.”
Interesting. “Good to know,” I said, handing over the toilet paper. As I turned to walk away, the bartender spoke up behind me. “Hey, you need any other information, you come see me first, you hear? Ain’t much happens around here I don’t know about.”
I looked over my shoulder and nodded. “See you in the morning, Slim.”
With that, I climbed the stairs, entered the door with the appropriate number, and locked it behind me.
*****
Dinner. Water.
Lay back on the bed and listen to the debauchery swell and stretch until it rattles from every room in the creak of bedsprings, thump of headboard against wall, fake moans and gasps and shouts of encouragement from the working girls, grunts and laboring and cries of release as the Johns finish their business. Drunks hoot and howl and bellow for more booze, serving girls fake-squeal, drinking songs slur in disjointed attempt at harmony, stomp of boots on wooden planks.
Forget a little while you’re living at the end of the world, ye of broken faith. Find comfort in the warm burn in the gut, throw off the yoke of inhibition, indulge the flesh with grasping, desperate hands until your breath is like kerosene and about as flammable. Raised voices, sound of furniture toppling, dull meaty thuds of fists, duller meatier thuds of clubs, shouts of bartender and patrons, guards snarling through the press, offenders protesting all the way out the door.
Put in the earplugs and doze.
Wake up. Check the watch. Seven-thirty in the morning.
Time to find Marco.
Time to get some answers.
THIRTY-SIX
Finding Marco turned out to be easy.
I came downstairs, picked a table where I could watch the door, and when the serving girl came around, ordered a bowl of venison and potatoes. The food was surprisingly good, flavored with salt and fresh herbs, which was probably why it was so expensive.
The tavern had been cleaned since the night before, tables and chairs put back in their rows, drunks dragged outside to sleep it off. A young woman no older than twenty, sporting a fresh black eye, diligently mopped the floor behind the bar and then began refilling empty bottles and water pitchers. I wondered how she had come to be in this place, and if she was here willingly or in bondage. Just as I was about to cross the room and strike up a conversation with her, there was a forceful pounding at the front door.
“Slim, wake your lazy ass up,” shouted a muffled voice.
The serving girl dropped what she was doing and hurried around the bar, sprinting for the door. When
she reached it, she threw the bolt and opened it wide, staying well behind it, eyes down, not saying a word. A man who fit Marco’s description walked in, flanked by two large, black-clad guardsmen.
“Slim! Get the fuck out here, I ain’t got all day.” He stomped inside, headed toward the bar. The girl came out from behind the front door and disappeared into the kitchen area. She was gone for maybe a full minute, then came back following a bleary eyed, cursing Slim.
“Sorry ‘bout that Marco,” he said. “Goddamn drunks kept me up half the night.”
If Marco heard him, he gave no indication. “What’s your take this month?”
“Come on back, I’ll show you.”
The men walked into the kitchen while the girl went back to her chores. A few minutes later, Marco’s men emerged with a small barrel with the word WHISKEY painted on the side, a quiver of arrows, and a cloth bag containing the heavy, unmistakable rattle of ammunition. Slim was smiling when he and Marco re-entered the room, but it was a sickly smile, and it came nowhere near his eyes.
“Nice take, Slim,” Marco said mockingly. “Tribune Blackmire sends his sincere thanks for your contribution to the community.”
The scrawny man bobbed his head nervously. “Always glad to do my part.”
The two guards shared a chuckle over that as they carried the goods outside where a horse-drawn cart waited. I watched them put their haul into the back and then trundle off to extort the next business down the street.
“Son of a bitchin’ taxes,” Slim muttered as he came back inside and shut the door. “How the hell am I supposed to turn a profit with these bastards bleeding me dry?”
As he walked past, he noticed me at my table and stopped short. “Well, you’re up early Mister…what did you say your name was, again?”
“I never said.”
“So what do folks call you?”
“Meyer,” I said, remembering a character in an old mystery series I used to read.
“Just Meyer? No first name?”
I shot him an irritated glare. “You ask a lot of questions, barkeep.”
He offered his greasy smile and held up his hands. “Just curious is all. I have to call you something, right?”
I let the glare linger for a moment, then went back to my meal.
*****
Marco made it nearly to the other side of town before I caught up with him.
He worked quickly, going into each business like a storm and shouting for the owner to show himself. In most cases, his two henchmen loaded a few items into the cart, Marco offered his condescending thanks on behalf of Tribune Blackmire, and they proceeded on. In a few cases, however, the tribute paid to their protector and benevolent dictator for life was insufficient, prompting the guardsmen to administer a savage beating with large, flexible sticks. All in the interest of public safety and the common good, of course.
I trailed them from a distance. Sometimes I let them out of sight, but never out of earshot. By four in the afternoon, they had hit every bar, brothel, eatery, and tradesman in town, then headed back to the Tribune’s office. Their cart was laden with everything from booze, to weapons, to horseshoes. There was even a frantic, squealing piglet in a dog carrier. I wondered if the Tribune would be dining on roasted pork tonight.
The two guards drove the cart around back while Marco entered the office through the front door. Seeing no reason why he wouldn’t leave by the same way, I crossed the street to a low-slung building proclaiming itself The Red Rooster, ordered a beer and a roasted chicken quarter, and waited. The beer was hand-crafted, and surprisingly good. When I asked the man serving it where he got it from, he proudly proclaimed he brewed it himself. I offered him my compliments, and slowly put away two more until, finally, I saw Marco emerge from the office building. Finishing quickly, I paid for my meal and headed out.
The part of town I followed him to was one I had only briefly explored the day before. It was nestled against the western wall, not far from the gate on that side, and there was a palisade around it, lower and less heavily fortified than the one surrounding the town, complete with two hostile-looking guards manning the entrance. They stood a little straighter as Marco approached, and made an odd fist-over-chest gesture I assumed was some sort of salute. Marco returned the gesture and waited as one of the guards knocked on the heavy door and shouted to someone on the other side. The door opened immediately, and Marco went through without a backward glance. A moment later he was out of sight, the guards relaxing and resuming their vaguely aggressive boredom.
Looking above the low wall, I could see three of what were, without a doubt, the most well-constructed houses in town. Most of the other buildings in the squalid residential areas were little more than hastily built bunkhouses and shacks. The three structures across from me actually looked like proper houses, the largest one boasting a carving of a stylized B surrounded by laurels above the front door. The residence of Tribune Blackmire, no doubt. It was logical to assume that one of the houses belonged to Marco, him being the instrument of Blackmire’s will, but the other one I had no idea. Probably some other element of the town’s leadership. Captain of the guard, maybe.
As I watched, a light flared to life in an upstairs window of the house to the right of the Tribune’s mansion.
So that’s where you sleep, Marco. Good to know.
On the way back to Slim’s Tavern, I began formulating a plan. First, I would need a distraction. A fire would do, somewhere on the other side of town. Get the guards’ attention, then a quick bit of rifle work from a nice dark alcove, scale the wall, take out the guards on the other side, and pay Marco a little visit. Get some questions answered, send him to his final reward, and slip silently into the night. But the timing would have to be perfect, and I would have to wait until long after nightfall when the livers were booze soaked and the debauchery was beginning to wane. Then strike, take them off balance, create a panic.
But first, rest. Once Marco was taken care of, there was no telling how far I would have to run to escape Blackmire’s wrath. Better to save my energy and start the evening’s festivities refreshed from a long nap.
I felt no trepidation as I walked through the door to Slim’s, just a dim excitement and smug confidence that Marco had no idea what was about to hit him. So when I looked up and found myself surrounded by ten armed, grim-looking men, to say I was surprised would be an understatement.
Stopping in my tracks, I looked around, cursed my own hubris, and wondered where I had screwed up. My hand began to inch toward my pistol.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice said.
With a sinking feeling, I realized the voice was familiar. It’s timbre and tone had taken on some of the harshness that comes with age, but the modulation, the amplitude, the inflection and hint of accent were the same. I looked in the voice’s direction and saw a man stand up behind the ring of guards. He was tall, broad shouldered, but lean and wiry. Much thinner than I remembered him. He was dressed in the same black fatigues as his men, albeit cleaner and in better condition. As he stepped forward, all I could see of his face was a thin blond beard. The rest was obscured by a dark, flat, wide-brimmed hat. He pushed the hat up and stopped a few feet from me, regarding me with one blue eye and one milky white one. A scar bisected the blind eye, starting at his hairline and running all the way down to his chin, curling one side of his mouth in a permanent sneer. He grinned, revealing a few missing teeth.
“What’s wrong, Gabriel? Aren’t you glad to see me? I’m the reason you’re here, after all. You seem…what’s the right word? Nonplussed.”
I remained silent, too stunned for speech. He stepped closer. “Did you really think you were just going to walk in here, in my town, and no one would recognize you? Please. Every guardsman, barkeep, hash-slinger, and whore has had your description for weeks. I’ve been expecting you, Gabe. You took your sweet time, though, didn’t you? I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show up. But now here you are, in the fles
h. And I am so very, very happy to see you.”
A coldness started in my stomach and spread quickly to my limbs and face. I couldn’t even bring myself to be angry. I had blundered into this place like a blind mouse in a room full of hungry cats and started sniffing around for cheese. My only consolation was knowing there was no way I could have guessed Blackmire’s true identity. Although, in retrospect, I had made no effort at all to learn more about him. Only then, when it was far too late, did I realize what a mistake that was.
And now, there was only one thing left to do.
I’m sorry, Elizabeth. I tried, but I came up short this time. Had to happen sooner or later.
I moved quickly, more quickly than Tanner expected. He barely managed to duck and roll, my first shot going over his head and striking a guard behind him. Heart pounding, counting out the last seconds of my life, I tried to adjust my aim. But he was moving quickly, shouting at his men, dodging between tables. I felt the prickling expectation of impact, of lead rending through flesh and bone.
Instead, there was a crackle.
Every muscle in my body seized up, the gun fell from my hand, and I went down. For a few seconds I bucked and screamed and twitched in agony. And then, as quickly as it started, the pain stopped. I tried to roll over, tried to reach for my backup piece, but a pair of boots appeared in front of me and there was an explosion in my head.
And then the world went black.
THIRTY-SEVEN
