“Oh, it’s great. The whole tiki thing isn’t really my style, though.”
“Give it some time. A place like this is everyone’s style.”
A bubbly, drunk woman came up on Radzinski from behind.
“You’re a member of the excursion teams, aren’t you?” she asked while hanging onto Radzinski for balance.
“I most certainly am,” he said without missing a beat.
“I knew it.” She was pleased with her apparent prize. The bubbly girl waved across the room. A table of her girlfriends waved back. “Why don’t you join us?”
“You know”—Radzinski smiled at Chelsea—“I think I will.”
“This ain’t your style, huh?” Chelsea grinned as Radzinski was led away.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Acclimation
With the sunrise came a chance to begin anew. An opportunity was there for the taking for those who would seize it. The chance at a fresh start—a clean start. A rebirth after many miles on the road and the experience of better navigating the apocalypse that went along with it. The Pepperbush survivors were safely behind the walls of Haven, but that safety came with a price. Each of them was assigned a job, new vocations that they would be required to see to daily to earn their keep aboard this floating city. Every person living on Haven must contribute in some way. There existed an alternative to work for those who refused, but what that entailed was only spoken of in hushed whispers, at least around the newcomers.
~~~
Trix’s drinking establishment was converted from a jazz bar to a sort of catchall for those living aboard the ship who preferred a more relaxing atmosphere. If the sunny pool bar, the loud casino, or some of the other more questionable drinking establishments aboard Haven weren’t to your liking, then Trix’s bar was the place to be. Trix was known to play the piano from time to time—not as a profession, just a hobby she picked up running bars in Miami’s affluent South Beach.
In the earliest days of the outbreak—before huge cities like Miami were deemed far too unstable for excursions—Trix and a large group of other survivors were found hiding in a library near the edge of town. Luckily for her, the mission that day was acquiring books on agriculture and farming. Her group was leery of Cortez and his men claiming to be from a ship looming on the horizon. All but Trix refused the offer of sanctuary. What became of her friends still haunted her, but she knew she made the right decision in leaving. She just wished she could have at least convinced some of them to leave with her.
Haven’s jazz bar was collecting dust when she arrived; the piano and tables were covered with sheets, the booze locked away. She herself convinced the captain that reopening not only this bar but others throughout the ship would be a boon for morale. He agreed, and Trix was tasked with overseeing the renovation of Haven’s four main drinking establishments.
Trix oversaw the opening of the jazz bar, which she renamed simply Trix’s. The pool bar, the casino, and Presence—an Elites-only bar for the captain and his staff—were also renovated and reopened to unanimous approval. The Elites—who mostly dwelled in the upper levels of the ship—glommed onto Presence early and quickly claimed it as their own. The captain didn’t seem to mind the growing class separation, or if he did, he never showed it; he had more pressing matters than tribalism to contend with.
Satisfied with what she had accomplished, Trix soon handed off the reins of the other three bars to people she could trust to run them efficiently and fairly. By the time the survivors of Pepperbush arrived, she primarily occupied herself with the daily operations of Trix’s.
The laid-back atmosphere of her bar suited her well, and she planned it that way. Trix wore jean shorts, a formfitting white tank top cut down the center just enough, and brown cowboy boots with a hat. Why not show off her figure a little? After all, it was the best money could buy. She didn’t go in for the whole tiki theme or the formal look of other establishments around the ship and their pretentious suits and cocktail dresses. Trix had similar outfits to hers waiting for new hires. The women on her staff wore clothing that matched her own, while the men wore similar short shorts and form-fitting white T-shirts sure to show off their carefully chiseled bodies. Sure, the atmosphere at Trix’s was laid back, but she did prefer at least a little uniformity.
Vanessa and Lillian were up to speed in a matter of minutes. Trix was delighted to find that Vanessa owned a bar and Lillian had worked there in her spare time for years. Mother Leeds felt like a lifetime ago for the newcomers, but as it turned out, they were just the help Trix needed.
Vanessa pulled a green bottle from the top shelf. “Absinthe!” she shouted with eyes as wide as saucers. “Set us up, barkeep. Holy shit, I thought I’d never have it again.” She slid the bottle down to Trix.
“My pleasure, ladies,” Trix said with a smile as she set up three drinks. “So can I take this to mean you want the job?”
“Damn right we’ll take the job.”
A handsome, well-dressed man in a shiny pink three-piece suit passed through the bar. He winked at Lillian and continued on his way. Trix curled her lip. His smug demeanor was clearly off-putting.
“Damn, he’s sharp-dressed,” Lillian exclaimed. “Where can I get a suit like that?”
“I wouldn’t concern yourself with him or anyone else he associates with.” Trix slammed the absinthe bottle hard onto the bar top; her contempt was palpable as she followed the sharp-dressed man out of the bar with her eyes. “Him and others like him have dubbed themselves the Elite—or, rather, we have. They live beyond deck ten. We’re not allowed up there.”
Lillian’s gaze followed the man out of Trix’s and into the unfamiliar hallways of the ship.
The women sipped their absinthe. They traded stories—laughed, grew solemn while lamenting loss, then laughed some more. Trix’s two new hires fit right in with the experienced barkeep. They weren’t exaggerating; Vanessa and Lillian knew their trade and they knew it well.
Trix’s smile faded with the arrival of an elderly woman dressed in furs and gaudy jewelry. The ensemble was topped off with a large hat and a cigarette dangling from the end of a comically long cigarette holder. The woman took a seat at the farthest end of the bar away from Trix and the new girls. Making Trix put in a little extra legwork was the woman’s way of exerting just a bit of control over Trix in her own establishment. The old woman carried a drink with her everywhere she went; a refill was in order regardless of her opinion of the place or its staff and patrons.
“Good morning, Dolores. I’ll be right with you.” Trix was polite regardless of who walked through her doors.
“Be a dear, would you, Trixie, and fetch me a Rob Roy, if you would be so kind.” Dolores dropped her near-empty drink from a few inches above the bar top. The fall wasn’t enough to break the glass, but the noise was loud enough to announce her presence for anyone that hadn’t noticed her enter.
“It’s Trix, ma’am, and I’d be happy to.”
Vanessa could see that Trix wasn’t especially fond of Dolores. “I can take care of her, don’t worry about it,” she offered.
“You sure? I’d hate for you to have to deal with that mean old crone on your first day.”
“Trust me, I’ve dealt with her kind before.”
“Jumping in with both feet, huh? I like it.”
Long before Pepperbush went to hell, Vanessa had grown accustomed to dealing with Donald Lancaster and his cronies placing themselves on a pedestal and looking down at her and the other people who called the town home. An elderly snob was nothing new.
Vanessa was all smiles. “Hello, ma’am. Dolores, is it? My name is Vanessa. I’m new to the ship, and so far, it’s been great. It’s nice to meet you. What can I get for you today?”
Dolores ignored the greeting, content that her order was already given to Trix. “My neighbor’s son, Cody.” She began her tale with a hard sniff and an eye roll that couldn’t have been missed by even the most apathetic of bartenders, as if to assure the masses she
was well and completely over any useless pleasantries. “He was always aggressive, but he was a nice boy. He played sports, one for each season, and he was quick to argue but pleasant when not in his aggressive mode.” She sat, stirred what remained of her original drink with vigor, and continued. “On the first day, Bob told me that I should look out the window because Cody was tearing up the backyard. I didn’t think much of it. Teenage angst and all. I thought I’d talk with the boy when he calmed.” She took a long gulp from her glass, then glared at Vanessa with cold, pale eyes. “It wasn’t until hours after he killed my husband and I killed him with a bronze Shakespeare bust that I made my way to his parents’ house just next door.
“There was so much blood. The way it was drying and turning black and flaking off the walls…” She trailed off. “He had killed them days prior, you see. I don’t think he was completely changed, even when he came after me,” she said with an extended pull of her cigarette. “You know, for a second there, when we were eye to eye, I really thought that he wanted to say something, to communicate anything to me. I was terrified, of course, and when he lunged, I hit him with Shakespeare. I didn’t stop hitting him until I threw up. Somewhere in my rage I noticed his skull had split apart. It was almost as if a pressure had been released. The split separated, it grew, and the flesh migrated in an instant. His face almost flattened, his features stretched, and the boy I saw grow into a young man became a caricature of himself. The release shot a part of his brain across my Pietra Firma tiles and he stopped coming for me.” Dolores lit another cigarette but not before tucking it securely into its holder. Decorum still mattered, after all. “What else is there to say?” she asked rhetorically. “I’m alive and he’s not. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. I suppose I’d warn Bob.” She shrugged.
“Well, that’s… that’s quite the tale, Dolores.” Vanessa was speechless. She didn’t know what to expect from the old woman. It certainly wasn’t that.
At the other end of the bar, Trix quietly shook her head.
Dolores smirked while lifting her glass. “A little less ice next time,” she said while fingering some ice out of the glass and dropping it onto the bar top. “How rude of me. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dolores Merriweather, but I’m sure the name wouldn’t even ring the proverbial bell for one of your…” She paused and, with an eye roll and upward chin, groaned. “Stature. If you absolutely insist, you may address me as ‘madame,’ though silence in my presence is preferable. And you would be?” she asked condescendingly. Before Vanessa could respond, Dolores continued. “Oh, don’t bother. Who you were then or who you are now is inconsequential—to me, at least. Now be a good girl and fetch a napkin for my drink. All this incessant rambling turns my stomach.” Dolores took her fresh drink without so much as a nod in appreciation and left the bar. She continued her way to some unknown destination.
“Uh, so yeah, that just happened,” Lillian said.
“Ignore the old bat. Her and her Elite pals turn their noses up at all of us,” Trix said. “Every morning it’s the same thing. She wanders in here, has some sort of veiled insult for me, and continues on to bother someone else.”
“I take it she’s friendly with the guy in the pink suit?”
“She is, and I may as well get this over with. The charming guy in the pink suit is Ian. He’s one of the Financiers. Or I should say the son of a wealthy business magnate. She’s not aboard the ship, though. A contract-signing kept her away from Haven’s maiden voyage. Anyway, the Financiers are a group of independently wealthy socialites who have claimed the entire upper deck for themselves. The best rooms with the best views. They still have room service and private entertainment and some of them don’t even lift a finger to help.”
“Well, that’s fucked up. Who do they think they are?”
“Eh, that’s a matter of perspective. And don’t get me wrong, they’re not all worthless pieces of shit like Ian. The vast majority of them do contribute. They just don’t advertise it. It’s the handful that turn their noses up at the rest of us that give the whole of them a bad reputation. So whenever you hear someone mention the Elite, that’s who they’re talking about. It’s a blanket identifier, a slur that the rest of us use. But yeah, Elite equals Financier, the upper crust, the my-shit-don’t-stink crowd.”
“Why are they allowed to separate themselves like that? And even claim a part of the ship. That seems a bit unfair.”
“Meh, fair, unfair, right, wrong. Who decides these things anymore? The truth of the matter is, those people upstairs come from money and they all invested in this ship—heavily. Haven being an experimental project and all, it was a huge gamble, so the fleet’s parent company wanted to mitigate some of the risk by looking for private funding. That’s where the Financiers come in. In exchange for bankrolling this project, they were gifted lifetime suites, grandfathered in. They essentially own their rooms in perpetuity.”
“Hmm.”
“You see, Kayembe—the captain—feels that if it wasn’t for the Financiers and their deep pockets funding this endeavor, he never would have been assigned to this ship, and consequently, his family would have been lost in those early, chaotic days.”
“That’s understandable.”
“It is. And like I said, the Financiers are not all bad. Far from it. Take Victoria and Esteban, for instance.” Trix motioned to a well-put-together middle-aged couple sitting off to the side of the piano. The man wore a muted Hawaiian shirt over a black speedo and the woman a red bikini with a black sarong. The couple chatted with a member of the wait staff and the three of them joked and laughed. “Looking at those two now, you’d probably never guess that they are—in fact—Financiers. They hail from Spain, are world travelers, and they did most of their business in New York. But they’re down to earth, not like that prick in the pink suit or old Dolores Merriweather. When you catch Esteban and Victoria out at night—whether it be upstairs or down here with us—they’re dressed to the nines. Every single night without fail, and good for them.”
“I never would have guessed.”
“Yep, as in most things, the few ruin it for the many. Do I refer to them all as Elite? Absolutely, but I don’t harbor any ill-intent toward any of them. We all have our place, and for now, everything operates smoothly enough. So unless or until the captain says otherwise, I’m content with the way things are.”
“So wait a minute.” Vanessa was confused. “If Dolores was here, aboard Haven for her maiden voyage, how does that explain her story about that kid and her husband?”
Trix shrugged. “The details change every time she tells it, slightly, but there’s discrepancy in the telling. You want to know what I think? She’s either lying or she got away with double murder before any of this began and she’s changing her story to weave it into the crisis.”
“That old bruja giving you trouble again, hermosa?” Cortez had entered from the opposite side of the bar.
He was smiling from ear to ear and was barefoot and wearing jeans and a loose-fitting white button-up shirt. Cortez had only bothered fastening one button just below his heart; the breezy fabric exposed a tanned and tone chest, stomach, and arms. His change in appearance and demeanor had Vanessa doing a double take as the man standing before her was nearly unrecognizable from the no-nonsense soldier she met on the road.
“Cortez!” Trix shouted. She nearly leapt over the bar at the sight of him. “I didn’t even see you come in.”
They held hands from opposite sides of the bar and greeted each other with a kiss.
Cortez slowly shook his head in stunned bewilderment. “I caught the tail end of Dolores’s story. I don’t know why you let that old bat in here.”
“It’s easier to just listen for a few minutes than the headache it would cause to eighty-six her.”
“You’re probably right. I don’t have to like it, though.”
“Forget her. I thought you had a meeting this morning.”
“It let out
early. Just as well. Save the number-crunching for Mensa. He lives for that stuff.”
“He missed another meeting? That’s not like him.”
“Sick again.”
“Something’s been going around. Anyway, I’d like you to meet my new girls. I think they’re going to work out great.”
Vanessa was hovering nearby. “We’ve met but haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Vanessa, and this is Lillian.”
“A pleasure to meet you, ladies. Properly, that is.” Cortez bowed at the waist with a wave of his hand as if he was presenting. “I’d like to apologize for my bluntness on the road. I suffer from tunnel vision and have been accused of only seeing the goal at times.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Vanessa said as she fixed the man a drink. “If anything, we should be formally thanking you. You saved our lives.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far. Miller seemed to have things well in hand.”
“Miller’s the best, but we were in trouble out there. So on behalf of all of us, thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Cortez raised his drink in a toast. “Here’s to the future, ladies.”
“A future together.” Vanessa smiled with her eyes squarely fixed on Lillian.
“For all those lost along the way.” Lillian raised her own glass and smiled back.
“And a better tomorrow.” Trix took Cortez’s hand in hers.
The quartet drank and laughed. They exchanged tales of sorrow and happiness. Gone were the judgments of the Doloreses and the Lancasters of the world—relics of the past, part of a dying breed still clinging to the old ways. But more importantly, the road was fast becoming nothing more than a memory. A bad memory, to be certain, but it could hurt them no longer.
Morning passed into afternoon and patrons from all walks of life came and went. Vanessa and Lillian loved their new jobs. It was only a few days prior that they couldn’t imagine life ever being this simple again.
Ahole and Genevieve had been at the bar since around noon, and after a few drinks, they were busy discussing the merits of de-cons and if forcing everyone to strip was at all necessary. While not on mission, Genevieve’s brown curly hair could flow freely; her bouncing locks complemented the Frenchwoman’s complexion well. Her bright blue eyes almost glowed in the dim light of Trix’s bar, a feature Vanessa had missed on the road and in the dank cells below. Genevieve went barefoot when off the clock, and she wore short shorts over a blue bikini. The look was seemingly common aboard the ship. Ahole wore cargo shorts and a loud rose-colored Hawaiian shirt that accentuated his curly red hair. He wore it down when at home aboard Haven, letting it flow to around the mid-neckline, where it stopped just shy of Genevieve’s locket, which she sometimes let him wear.
The Roaming (Book 3): Haven's Promise Page 8