Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Waste Stories #1)

3. Smack-dab, in the Middle of Nowhere (Part 3)

Bert felt the beginnings of a headache, stemming from grinding her teeth together. Her fingers remained tight around her pistol, while Phoenix moved in next to her cradling a whole pile of knives in his arms. He dumped them on the bar counter with a loud clatter and picked up the biggest - a very, very bloody meat cleaver.

The door thudded again, louder this time. Voices muttered behind it as Smack-dab's customers hopped their seats inch by inch away from the front area. A general murmur of panic was rippling through their poor, wealthy ranks, wide-eyed heads swivelling like Old World carnival clown machines to find someone who seemed confident. Of course, this meant all eyes fell on Bert. Bert, whose blue eyes bore holes in the door frame.

Smack-dab's front door thudded a third time. Someone behind it cursed loudly.

"Bloody stars, what's this thing made out of?" he said.

"Just'th open it normally, Roger," a second voice cried.

"I want to make'th an entrance."

"Thee can make an entrance normally, though!"

"But I want to make'th a dramatic entrance!"

"Yeah, but thee can't make a dramatic entrance if you - thee - can't kick'th it down."

The bugle ceased suddenly.

"Why don't you turn'th the handle, then kick it in?" a third voice chimed in.

"That's a great idea!"

"Thank you."

"Alright, you play'th forth the Battle Tune, you turn'th the handle, and I'll kick it in."

For the third time in barely as many minutes, Bert let out a slow, careful breath. Somehow she could just feel the stress like a little, irradiated pixie sitting on her shoulders, sandpapering her lifespan down with each headache.

The first time these weird-talking nutters appeared at Smack-dab, Bert was terrified. She thought a swarm of bandits - her sworn enemies - was seizing the opportunity of The Woman's death and moving in for a quick kill. It was her first bar invasion on her own, and to this day she still regretted the amount of ammo she wasted on their small, hooded warband. It took days to clean up all the giblets.

The fourth time it happened, she followed the buggers back to their village in the mountains and demanded the madness to stop. There were threats, sure, and she had shot some folk, OK maybe, but she was under the impression that the treaty was sound. It had worked for the past couple years, anyway.

But now?

Bert drew her pistol angrily and placed it, under her human hand, on the bar counter. She didn't need this, not today.

The bugle outside began again. The Battle Tune.

A muffled voice spoke confidently. "On the count of three..."

Phoenix practiced swinging his cleaver a couple times, blood specks flinging off and hitting him in the mouth.

"One..."

He spat in disgust, wiping his arms on his face but only smearing the blood across more of his face.

"Two..."

Customers all around the bar were beginning to notice Bert's lack of terror. She wasn't cowering, or ducking for cover, or fleeing and screaming (like they would be). Some took it as a good sign and turned their chairs - drinks in hand - to face the action.

Bert gripped her pistol.

"Three!"

The door thudded again.