The Bar at the End of the World

by Tom Abrahams

  “There are only a few places they could be holding Li,” said Zeke. “The first is close. It’s on the other side of the market near the government buildings. Maybe a mile from here? There’s an old monument there. A dude on a horse.”

  “Okay,” said Phil. “We split up. Each of us takes a Marine. Zeke, you head straight for the monument. We’ll meet you there.”

  Uriel agreed. Gabe nodded.

  “Let’s do this quietly and discreetly,” said Phil. “The less obvious we are, the easier the rest of this will be.”

  Zeke regarded the heavy weapon in his hand, the mystery revolver. “All right then,” he said under his breath.

  He moved between the closest two buildings, sticking to one of its rough-hewn walls. He inched to where it opened into the market. The transport was straight ahead.

  Zeke surveyed the crowd. It was larger than it had been minutes earlier. The market featured tents and tables full of things worthless to anyone but the people selling them. Odd bolts, pieces of rusted machinery, ragged swatches of brocade fabric, and random masonry decorated the stalls, as they were. Their sellers pleaded with passersby, lowering their prices with each step the prospective marks would take farther from them.

  An odor of cooked meat wafted past Zeke, and he spotted fingers of smoke rising from atop a trash can covered with a piece of sheet metal. A man poked at the chunks of flesh cooking atop the hot plate. It was rat. And the smell, at first appetizing, now stewed into something that turned his stomach.

  He lifted his shirt and tucked the revolver into his waistband. He thought it easier to blend in with the masses without clutching a large steel weapon. He took his first step into the open, not seeing any of the Marines. He merged into the first pool of foot traffic when a flash of motion to his left caught his attention.

  Others saw it too, and the swirling tide of humanity began to shift and move in that direction. Something loud, a clacking sound, was drawing their attention. Zeke checked straight ahead. With the distraction, he could have easily moved closer to his destination. He took two large steps toward the cluster of tents and tables in front of him, leaned into a jog, and glanced back at the tightening circle of people to his left.

  He cursed, touched the revolver’s grip under his shirt to make sure it was there, and moved with the ebbing tide of bazaar-goers turned carnival audience. Beyond the crowd, he saw Gabe’s profile and the tops of the weapons. He was clapping them together and using them in some offensive maneuver.

  He swung them like an artist performing a ritual dance. The crowd moved closer and then backed away with his wide, arching movements. They throbbed in and out, oohing and ahhing.

  Zeke craned his neck to see more of what was happening but couldn’t. He glanced back in time to see Uriel climbing into the cab of the TMF transport. A Marine was a few steps behind her, his weapon raised.

  She slammed the door shut. The Marine took a series of shots that peppered the side of the transport, sparks flecking off the armored plating. The crowd behind him screamed at the sound of gunfire. The men and women were scattering now, some on the ground crawling with their heads in their hands, others running.

  Zeke saw what had held their attention until the gunfire. Gabe had beaten a Marine to his knees. An M27 lay harmlessly on the ground. Each time the injured Marine made a move for it, Gabe enlisted a series of twirling motions that struck the trapped Marine and kept him from reaching his weapon. With each strike, a flash of blue light strobed from the ends of the sticks. The Marine jerked, seizing, and his body spasmed as if jolted with electric voltage.

  Another rapid burst of gunfire drew Zeke’s attention back to Uriel. She now had the transport in gear and was backing it up. The Marine firing upon his own vehicle was helpless to stop her as she mowed down a row of tables.

  Zeke reached for his revolver. He gripped it in his right hand and lifted it toward the Marine. He put his finger on the trigger, steadied himself, and brought up his other hand to better hold the weapon of mass destruction. He took aim.

  Before he applied pressure, he realized that if he shot at the Marine attacking the transport, his blast would also hit Uriel. He couldn’t focus the energy blast enough unless he got closer.

  Zeke spun back toward Gabe and lifted the weapon. Again, he hesitated and reconsidered. At this distance, he’d hit everyone in the crowd and likely blast Gabe along with them. As incredible as his revolver was, he didn’t fully understand what it was, and he couldn’t use it indiscriminately. He tucked the revolver back into his waist.

  Caught between these two scenes, with no option to truly help either of his companions, Zeke knew he’d made a mistake not to run for it when he’d had the chance. Now there was no waiting, no hesitation. He sprinted in the monument’s direction, which he couldn’t see from the market.

  He weaved past crying and ducking market-goers, rushing into the maze of flea market stands. He knocked over tables and kicked loose the taut lines supporting tarps and tents. He tripped twice, but kept his balance. Behind him, the chaos intensified.

  The transport’s engine revved. A loud crash and the earsplitting sound of metal grinding on metal carried through the morning air. Zeke picked up his knees and ran. He was past the market now and closer to the paved roads that connected at the monument.

  To his right, a queue of people awaiting a government handout watched him bolt by. His boots rubbed against his heels; the revolver jostled at his waist. His breath, reflected back at his face underneath the cover of the bandana, was hot and sour.

  Gunfire rattled in the distance, echoing. It made it hard for Zeke to know how many shots were fired, how many weapons were involved. He darted past a woman holding a child in her arms, when a black-clad figure stepped in front of him and yelled at him to stop.

  Zeke ignored the command until he saw the M27 leveled at his chest. He raised his hands above his head and skidded to a stop ten feet from the Marine.

  “Figured you’d be coming this way,” said the Marine. “It’s the only way to the city center.”

  The Marine took another step and tilted his head. At that distance, Zeke figured there was no way the man would need the magnifying lens. All he had to do was squeeze the trigger and it would hit Zeke dead center in the chest.

  Dead center.

  “Remove the mask,” said the Marine. He planted a foot in the dirt and leaned forward at his shoulders. “Take off the hat.”

  Zeke kept his arms above his head. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving. He said nothing.

  The Marine jerked the rifle as he snapped, “Do it.”

  Zeke, with his palms open, lowered his arms. Slowly, he drew his hand to the bandana covering his nose and mouth.

  “Faster,” said the Marine. He scanned the area around him, keeping the rifle aimed at Zeke.

  Pops of gunfire snapped in the distance. The Marine glanced past Zeke, then fixed on him again.

  Zeke pinched the fabric at the bridge of his nose at the moment two shots pierced the air at close range. He was sure the impatient Marine had shot him. His body twitched. He took his hand from the bandana and, with the fingers of both hands spread, felt his torso. He swiped at his chest. Nothing.

  But the Marine’s body tensed, jerked, then slumped to the ground. He slapped against the packed dirt with a sickening thud. Blood oozed from underneath him, spreading out across the earth.

  “You okay?” came Phil’s voice from behind him.

  Zeke was trembling from what he thought was a near-death experience. He nodded and thanked Phil as the big man stepped next to him.

  Phil slung his rifle over his shoulder and tipped his bowler. A black smudge from his thumb stained the front of the hat. “Sorry about that,” he said. “That was my guy. He got away from me for a minute.”

  “No problem,” said Zeke.

  Phil put a hand on Zeke’s shoulder. “Let’s keep moving. We’ve got a lot to do and even more ground to cover.”

  Zeke eyed Phil and
glanced over his shoulder between them. He didn’t see Uriel or Gabe. He didn’t hear any gunfire. There was no rumble from a rogue transport.

  “What about them?” he asked. “We can’t leave them.”

  “They’re fine,” said Phil. “They’ll meet us. Now c’mon.”

  The big man grinned through his beard and motioned with his head toward the statue in the distance. He patted Zeke on the back, hard, and gripped the flail, holding it diagonally across his body.

  Zeke touched the revolver at his waist, checking to make sure it was there. Phil took two big steps.

  “All right,” Zeke said. “I’m coming.”

  They moved from the vacant dirt lots to the crowded streets. Nobody gave them a second look despite their appearance and Phil’s large weapon.

  The people were too consumed with their own lives, their faces sullen, dragging their feet from one line to another, carrying empty sacks. Zeke knew why the Tic was so successful. The Tic gave people hope. They helped them get the things they needed, offering a belief that not everyone was subject to the iron fist of the Overseers.

  Still, he wished he’d never been a part of the syndicate. He wished he’d been strong enough to survive without the help of criminals, to drag Li with him when he’d left. He wished a lot of things.

  They reached the monument close to the government towers and found Uriel and Gabe already there, impatiently waiting for them. Uriel’s body language told Zeke she was agitated at how long it had taken them. But as they got closer, he understood her uneasy stance wasn’t from agitation. It was from discomfort. She was pacing because she was anxious. Something had happened.

  Phil didn’t appear to notice their unease. He stepped up to them and slapped Gabe on the shoulder. “You beat us here. Good for you.”

  Neither of them spoke. Neither of them would even look up from the ground.

  “What is it?” asked Zeke. “Did you find her? Is Li okay?”

  Uriel exhaled, puffing out her cheeks. She shook her head.

  Zeke’s heartbeat fluttered. His chest tightened and he felt light-headed. He stepped closer, invading Uriel’s space. “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly. “What happened to Li?”

  “It’s not Li,” Gabe said. “That’s not who we found.”

  Zeke didn’t understand. His mind raced. Who else was there to find?

  He scanned the muted crowds of people and spotted Overseer guards at the steps of the Fascio, who didn’t seem to notice them.

  “Tell me,” he said, his voice trembling. “What is it?”

  He tried to imagine who else he’d failed. What person had fallen into his sphere of crime and death? There was nobody. It was only Li.

  His mind flipped through a catalog of people.

  Rose? They wouldn’t know her. Mogilevich? Why would they care? Was this about Raf? Barach?

  What possibly could have happened in the short span of time between their emergence from the tunnel and this moment? What was it that had them so spooked, so speechless?

  He turned in circles, searching for something, anything. He was shaking now.

  Then he saw it. And Zeke’s world turned upside down.

  He gasped. He stood frozen. Somebody touched his shoulder. Somebody else put an arm around his waist, trying to comfort him. But he only vaguely processed it. He was too focused on the bodies hanging from the Fascio.

  He took a step forward, closer to the trio of corpses that now looked like scarecrows more than humans. His bandana was cold and damp against his cheeks. He realized tears were draining from his eyes. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t understand what it was he was seeing. Yet he fully understood it. It all made sense now, and the gaps in his memory flooded with what he’d forgotten. For the first time since he’d found himself behind the wheel of his Superbird, trying to escape the Horde, he remembered the end of his natural life.

  The visions snapped through his mind like someone turning the pages of a picture book with increasing speed. The world spinning around him teetered and darkened from view as those memories consumed him…

  He was in his apartment. He sat at a table in the dark. The pen in his hand scratched against the paper in front of him. He folded it, rose from his seat, and navigated the blackness into the bedroom.

  Li was sleeping, her breathing soft but audible. It was the same pattern to which he’d found himself falling asleep as he tried to match it with his own respiration. She was on her side, her knees curled, and her hands tucked between them. One foot stuck out from beneath the covers and teetered on the mattress. Behind her, on his pillow, he set the note. He picked it up, drew a deep breath, then set it down again. He adjusted it, centering it on the pillow.

  He left the apartment and whispered a goodbye. A knot swelled in his throat, making it hard to swallow. He wasn’t sure he breathed at all on the walk to his car. Then he sped away, lights off, cutting through the darkness and edging toward the Tic smuggling tunnel.

  The streets were empty. The gravel crunched under his tires. His window was down, the air dry and cold. The sky was inky and cloudless, freckled with points of light from distant stars. The moon was a sliver, waning and almost gone. Its vague outline was gray against the night sky.

  He turned on the wipers to swipe away the dust coating the windshield. It did little but move it around.

  He was at the entrance to the tunnel. His path was clear. And then it wasn’t.

  Bright lights flicked on in unison, blinding him. Men shouted above the low rumble of his idling Plymouth. The barrels of M27s pointed at him.

  He was on the ground, knees in his back and shackles on his wrists. He was punched, kicked. He was imprisoned and questioned. He kept quiet. He slept, he dreamt, he regretted, he prayed.

  Then he was on the Fascio steps. Four Marines led him there. The commander was shouting to an assembly of hungry, bloodthirsty rubberneckers.

  The sun was blinding. Zeke winced. His back ached and his clothes hung on him like rags.

  “This man,” the commander said, “is a bootlegger.”

  The crowd hissed. A rock punched him in the side. He felt it in his ribs. He bit the inside of his cheek to squelch the pain.

  The commander pointed at him. “He takes water from us and sells it for profit!” he shouted. “He is a thief and a traitor. He is a Tic!”

  The rubberneckers screamed, “Kill him! Make him pay!”

  Zeke’s heart pounded. He knew what was coming. The crowd cheered. They chanted. They fell quiet.

  “We cannot tolerate this,” said the commander. “We have to send a message to that underground movement of enemies who would take from us what is so precious. They are stealing life. They are profiting from your thirst.”

  A wave of fear, of knowing what was next, washed through him. His body trembled and warmth spread across his groin. Then it was cold. Tears blurred his vision.

  The commander taunted him. “While we barely have enough water to drink or cook,” he declared, “this man is hydrated enough to cry and wet himself. It’s further proof of his betrayal.”

  The commander stepped to him, his face sour. He squeezed Zeke’s shoulder and offered judgment disguised as mercy.

  The Marines tightened their grip on him. He asked for forgiveness. He wanted a second chance. He promised to tell them what he knew.

  They fixed a harness to him, tightening the straps at his shoulders and chest.

  Then pain. Searing pain. A long gash at his midsection burned. Someone screamed. It was ear piercing and he wanted it to stop. But the cries wouldn’t stop. Then he realized he was the one screaming, crying out in agony.

  A mechanical sound droned somewhere close. The harness pressed against him and he was weightless. He was lifted off the ground. He kicked, he sweated, and he bled.

  The wound widened as his body gave in to gravity. His flesh ripped and tore. The harness rode up his body, trapping his arms.

  He spun as the chain that held him twisted and then unwound again.
He grew weak. The world around him grew darker…

  Presently, he was back in front of those bodies. He was a rubbernecker now, taking delight in a public execution. He was staring at his own remains.

  “I’m dead,” he said. He looked at his hands, touched his chest. He blinked. His brow twitched and he turned toward his companions. “I’m dead.”

  They stood quietly watching him.

  He pointed at himself and then at them, waggling his finger amongst them. “If I’m dead, then what are all of you?”

  Uriel looked up. She was as serious as he’d ever seen her. Her expression was flat, her brow furrowed with genuine concern. “We’re the Watchers.”

  Zeke studied each of them and glanced back at his corpse. His hands were picked clean of any flesh.

  “The Watchers?” he asked.

  Phil took off his hat and wiped his sweaty forehead, the curls of his matted hair, with the back of his arm. “Ever heard of Enoch?”

  “We don’t have time for this,” said Gabe. “Not right now.”

  Phil raised a hand toward Gabe. “Give us a second,” he breathed. “Our friend here is in shock. We have time for the basics.”

  Gabe looked toward the Fascio and then beyond the statue back toward the market and the distant queues of citizens.

  “The basic basics,” said Gabe. “We need to find Li and get out of here.”

  Zeke shook his head. “Enoch, Watchers, the overwhelming evidence I’m freaking dead? What the hell is going on?”

  Zeke fell to his knees.

  I’m going to be sick.

  His stomach churned and all he wanted to do was vomit, but nothing ever came out. So many of his questions had answers now. But those answers begat more questions. He couldn’t process this. It was too much.

  His body trembled. His eyes couldn’t focus. He was at once cold and hot. He wanted to scream and cry and laugh.

  Is any of this real? Is it heaven? Is it hell? Is it somewhere in between? Am I physically experiencing any of this, or is it some manifestation of my dead soul, an ethereal projection?