Dark of Winter: Prepper Book Two

Chapter XI: The Legend of Mickey Trout

The heavily-sprung solid oak door resists my passage and the ill-maintained hinges creak and groan in concerted protest as I force my way in. A thick haze of smoke hangs in the air assaulting  my eyes as soon as I enter. The particulate stew of combusted tobacco and weed distinctly evident to even the most challenged of olfactory senses. Soft, yellow light glows from oil lamps and a half-dozen candle-powered sconces that adorn the walls. The air is stale and humid and I don't intend to spend much time here. The sooner I get out of here the better. The bar patrons are occupied with their drinks and conversation and seem to completely ignore my arrival.

I release the door and it slams home with weighty authority and a resounding bang. Three patrons at the bar turn and glare. The barkeep looks up and addresses me directly, "Hey asshole, mind the fucking door!"

Welcome to the Lager Haus, I think to myself.

I nod and wave back my weak non-verbal mea culpa as I approach the bar. The last patron to turn back to his drink is a beleaguered-looking Jake. Sitting down on the stool, I place my elbows on the heavily varnished barnwood bar and turn to Jake, "How you doing? Everything okay?"

His reply is nothing more than a grunt, then he takes a drink and stares into his glass.

"I thought we were coming here together. Went to your place, Heather said you left hours ago."

" So what?" He snorts.

"So. So we had a plan jack-ass. That's what. It's an hour walk."

"What do you want Connor? I'm here right? Don't get your tits in a twist," he says and drains his glass which he then bangs on the bar before holding it up toward the barkeep.

"Jesus. How much have you had."

"Don't worry about it. I'm good, settle down and have a drink."

The barkeep pours more golden liquid into Jake's glass before turning to me, "Whaddya want?"

"What are my options?"

"You can drink or get the fuck out," the barkeep fires back.

I throw my hands up in futility. "Really?"

"Look man, we got shitty beer, shitty wine and whisky. Now what do you want?"

"Is the beer cold?"

"Fuck no."

"Whisky." I say, but it's a disappointing choice because after that walk I could really go for a cold beer, even a shitty one.

"So how is Heather?" I ask, turning back to Jake. He's holding the glass in both hands staring into the bottom as he swirls the liquid. I see a man who's conscience is getting the better of him. Like an animal trapped in a cardboard box, incessantly scratching to get out. I know that rabid, fervent scratching all too well, I have plenty of my own trapped animals. He never does answer me. I leave it alone. Sleeping dogs, and all that.

The barkeep plops a glass on the bar that I suspect has, at best, only received a cursory rinse since its last use. He then grabs the whisky and pours. I hope to hell the booze kills whatever latent microbes are living in that glass.

"Anything on the menu?" I ask.

"Just stew."

"I'll take it. I'll go find a table."

Jake is clearly not the best company at present so I leave the bar in search of a free table. Finding one near the staircase, I take a seat with my back to the wall. A young girl leans seductively against a rough-hewn post nearby, she wears far too little clothing and far too much make-up. It nearly conceals her black-eye. Nearly.