Rise

Chapter Twenty Seven: At the Sign of the Blind Barman

The Blind Barman looked like a hole in the wall, nestled between a defunct general store and a crumbling apartment building. Matt had found himself in the old district of Foundation, the first buildings to rise before the walls went up. The sign above the door depicted a stylized version of the tavern’s name, with a pair of dark aviators beneath. The sign must have been wonderfully colourful half a decade ago, but now it’s colours had faded and washed out, only a husk of what it used to be. Like much else out here, Matt thought to himself as he pushed open the door. 

Matt expected to feel his gut twisting, or a lump form in his throat as he stepped into the establishment, but there was nothing. He wasn’t afraid anymore, and that’s something that scared him. It felt like a trap, smelled like a trap, hell it looked like a trap but there was barely a hesitation. He had his tool on one hip, and the revolver on the other. Nothing could hurt him, not anymore. 

The bar smelled of stale beer, the vapours attacking Matt’s nostrils as he drew breath. But behind the stench there was a history in the smell; musty wood, ash from the old hearth. This place had been a hub, a central gathering spot when work was done. There was a dart board on the far wall with darts still piercing the cork, and a pool table at the other, a game left behind unfinished. There were broken mugs resting on the bar, beside a decaying cigar box, it’s contents long turned to dust.

Matt crinkled his nose as he stepped further inside, his boots crunching against glass and who knows what. The mildew has probably developed an intelligence by now, Matt thought to himself as the moldy smell slowly became too much to bear. But curiosity was a stronger force than smell, and Matt delved deeper as he noticed a dim light in the back corner. 

The candle made war with the natural moonlight filtering in through the broken windows, casting grim shadows across the floor. Matt saw the man’s shadow first, dancing like a specter along the hardwood as the candle flickered and swayed. Matt stepped forwards, a hand gripping the hilt of his pistol, finger curled over the trigger. 

The fear that had been absent moments ago crept into his heart, and he felt it grow heavy in his chest. His stomach felt hollow and empty as he approached the booth, slowly sliding the handgun from its holster, the barrel nearly half exposed. 

I should never have come, Matt thought to himself. This is stupid and reckless. I didn’t even tell Emma I where I was going. But there was no turning back now. Despite the alarms going off in his mind, Matt advanced until the man was in full view and Hemstead’s face was illuminated in the candle light. The old man’s hair looked as if it were on fire, and his blue eyes reflected the dancing flame in his pupils.

Matt let out a sigh and released his grip on his revolver, letting it fall back into the holster. He shook his head, laughing at himself for being so paranoid, but he knew he wasn’t completely safe yet. Apprehension still nagged at him, and the hollow ache in his gut did not leave but he’d made it thus far, he may as well go all the way.

“I’m glad you came,” Hemstead uttered, not even turning to look at Matt.

The kid stopped dead in his tracks, his hand back on his revolver, heart pounding. How could he have seen me? Matt held his breath, unsure of whether it would be wise to answer.

Hemstead chuckled softly, “I could see your reflection in the window. Now come sit, I’m not the one you need to fear.”

Matt did as he was bid and slid onto the bench opposite the old man. He let his left arm rest on the table top while his right hand was fixed firmly around his pistol. As much as Hemstead claimed he meant him no harm, Matt was unconvinced. But if I really thought he was going to hurt me, would I have even come? Matt thought to himself as he loosened his grip, feeling foolish.