After Hours: Tales From Ur-Bar

by Joshua Palmatier; Patricia Bray

“Yeah, well, you didn’t hire me to be nice now, did ya, boss?”

  “You have a point,” Gil said.

  “So . . . ?” Billy could barely contain his excitement, his heart pounding away in his chest like a tiny motor trying to power an entire city block.

  “As you said, I can’t rightly throw him back out there,” Gil said with a sigh. “What kind of a host would I be then? I’ll hook the taps up to my special brew and we’ll see what we can do here about firing up a good time.”

  The stranger looked relieved.

  “Thanks, boss,” Billy said, turning his girth around and waddling back to his stool. Billy didn’t understand what the secret to Gil’s special brew was, but it was enough to know that when Gil served it, the bar’s crowd was happy.

  Only a few things made Billy happy. The company of a good woman and the money to afford her. The second part looked well on its way to happening. Now he only had to work on the first part, which would depend entirely on raising more of the second part. His night was shaping up, after all.

  The man Billy had let in stepped up to the bar. “Name’s Wade,” the stranger said. “You the owner of this place?”

  Gil nodded at him. “For now, anyway. Why? You looking to buy a place?”

  The stranger shook his head. “Afraid it would interfere with my nomadic nature . . . also, my lack of funds.”

  Gil actually looked a little disappointed. “Too bad,” he said. “So William said you’re a musician?”

  The stranger reached over his shoulder and patted the covered guitar neck poking out of his pack. “I wouldn’t exactly define myself as one thing,” he said, “but yeah, since it got me in here out of the Wastes, that’s who I am tonight.”

  “Where you coming from?”

  “I was up Cummington way, down from Albany over the Berkshire Mountains.”

  “How’s it going up there?”

  “They’re surviving,” the stranger said. “They run a good kitchen up in the hill towns and they know how to take care of their talent. Left me happy and satiated when I moved on.”

  “‘Tis a noble pursuit, the life of the bard,” Gil said.

  The stranger looked around at all the long faces. “Looks like you could use a bard for all your bored.”

  Gil laughed. “You play the classics?”

  The stranger nodded. “Sure. Hendrix, Marley, Cobain . . . the crowd pleasers.”

  Gil looked to Billy, who nodded his approval.

  “So that’s who passes for classic these days, eh, William ?” Gil asked.

  “You’re not from around here now, are ya?” the stranger asked. “Got a bit of an accent.”

  “Yes,” Gil said. “Yes, I do.”

  The stranger stared at him expectantly, but Gil didn’t offer up anything more.

  “Okay,” the stranger said. “Now about that meal. . . .”

  “First things first, stranger,” Gil said. “When you’re in my bar, we seal a deal with a drink.” Gil picked up a mug from underneath the bar, tipped it to a slant under the spigot and pulled at the tap. A deep dark brew poured out, forming a perfect glass with just the right amount of foam at the top. “You should probably let that sit a second and settle.”

  “No thanks,” the stranger said. “I try not to drink before a show. I know it calms some people’s nerves, but not mine.”

  “We drink,” Gil said, pushing the mug over to the stranger, “or Billy here shows you the door. It’s our custom and as master of the house, I insist.”

  The stranger looked over at Billy but the bouncer only stared back at him, dead-eyed and stoic. Maybe Billy had made a mistake letting the guy in. He had no doubt in his mind that Gil would make good on his promise to throw the guy out, but Billy didn’t want that ... not if he was gonna roll the guy for his guitar later, anyway. Still, whatever the boss said goes, and that was as good as law around here, but there was hope yet. If he had to give the guy the bum’s rush, he might still be able to get the guitar away from him.

  Billy watched the guy with suspicion. He didn’t think the guitar player was going to take the drink at first, but after a long moment, he reached for the mug and brought it to his lips.

  “Fine,” the stranger said. As he drank, his eyes rolled back into his head and after a few long swigs, he put the glass back down, empty. “Is that a house blend?”

  Gil nodded. “The one and only.”

  “Damn, that’s good stuff,” the stranger said, pounding one of his gloved fists down on the bar. “The way beer was meant to be made, if you ask me.”

  “Glad you liked it,” Gil said. “Now we can get down to business. You play the night, get the crowd going, and you get protection from those monstrosities outside and a free meal. Plus if they all keep drinking, you drink for free.”

  “Sounds decent enough,” the stranger said, “especially if the food is half as good as that beer.”

  Gil smiled. “Can’t promise that. Brewing is my real specialty, but I’ll see what I can do. I’ve picked up a few recipes over the years. Should be suitable enough.”

  “You have any fruit?”

  “Fruit?” Billy said, laughing. “Why, boy? You feeling fruity, are you? You came to the wrong bar for that, son.”

  Gil shot him a look. “William,” he said, and it was enough to kill the raspy laugh in Billy’s chest.

  The stranger ignored Billy, but his eyes were lit up now. “I’ve been dying for a little fresh fruit, is all. It’s hard to harvest anything when you’re traveling solo out there in the Wastes, you know? I’d kill for an apple, all nice, juicy and red. I got me an appetite tonight and that would just about be the icing on the cake.”

  Gil nodded. “I can oblige, mister. William here will see to it all when you’re done playing.”

  Billy swore under his breath and was about to tell his boss he wasn’t about to start taking orders and delivering food around like some goddamned waitress, but after that last look the boss had given him, it died on his lips.

  “Much obliged,” the stranger said. He looked off at the tiny platform at the far end of the barroom. An old worn stool and a rusted mic stand stood on top of it. “You sure that thing can hold me?”

  “Don’t worry,” Gil said. “It’ll hold. You’re a performer. The stage is what you make of it, right?”

  The stranger smiled at that. “I suppose it is,” he said, “but then again, I ain’t no miracle worker.” He pulled the wrapped guitar off of his back and unwound its covering. He pulled out a gorgeous six-string acoustic with a sunburst finish across the front of it.

  Billy whistled. “How the hell do you keep it that nice traveling across the Wastes? I haven’t seen one intact since ... well, hell, I don’t know when I’ve seen one that intact.”

  “The tool of my trade,” the stranger said, patting its body. He picked it up and headed for the stage. “Make sure those portions are big, though. Performing works up one hell of an appetite.”

  Billy watched the stranger as he took the stage, barely able to resist the itch rising at the base of his brain again. Something like that guitar had to be worth a pretty penny these days, right?

  The stranger took to the stage in front of the bored crowd and without even introducing himself launched into Hendrix’s Little Wing. From the first chord, the crowd reacted, their enthusiasm growing through the next several hours with each passing song as the guy worked through a lengthy catalogue of crowd pleasers.

  As the night wore on, Billy did more than his fair share of slinging drinks while the boss worked at superhuman speed to keep up with the demands of the thirsty crowd. The dingy joint of sad drunkards transformed as the evening progressed, the crowd becoming friendlier as they joined in on songs from the old days, songs of a simpler time—songs from before the Wastes.

  Even the bar itself seemed to change. Every time Billy ran drinks, he seemed to notice something new about the place, something he had never noticed before. The way Billy was running around, he felt the goddamned pl
ace might even be larger than usual, but laughed it off as simply being overworked. Still, he had managed to eye several women in the crowd who might be worth a sweaty grunt or two once things died down. The tips flowed in and for a brief period of time they killed the greedy itch he felt at the back of his brain. The crowd was song-drunk when the stranger finally stopped.

  Billy watched the stranger work his way through the still clapping crowd, dozens of patrons slapping him on the back or forcing money into his hands as he went. All the love and respect they were giving the guy caused Billy’s brain itch to deepen, especially with the stranger getting all the attention from the ladies in the crowd. Billy was pretty sure that if the stranger wanted, he could have his pick of any of the women in the room. He was also pretty sure that none of them would dare charge the guitarist for their services, which only irked Billy further.

  As the crowd finally settled down, the stranger made his way to the bar. “Wow,” he said. “This place really came alive, didn’t it? I mean the crowd, the energy . . . hell, at one point I thought the entire bar was actually changing! I thought maybe you slipped something into my drink earlier, but I swear this is not the same bar I walked into.... I mean, that microphone was rusted when I came in and look at it now. It looks like it just popped off an assembly line.” The stranger paused and cocked his head at Gil. “This place really is different, isn’t it?”

  Gil shook his head. “It’s amazing how the crowd can change a person’s perception of a place.” Gil said. “But no. Izdu-Bar is just a bar.”

  Billy could tell the stranger that he wasn’t quite buying Gil’s explanation. His boss stared at the guitarist until the stranger looked away.

  “Right,” the stranger said, then changed the subject. “So about that meal . . . ?”

  Gil relaxed. “Ah, yes,” he said. “The bargain we struck in exchange for your entertainment this evening. I live to serve. Give me a few minutes to whip something together. The crowd got a little out of control while you were playing, and well ... the customers always come first.”

  “You got a place I can sit down for a spell while I eat?” the stranger asked. He held his guitar by its neck, balanced its body on his foot. “I’m worn.”

  “Sure,” said Gil.

  The stranger looked around the bar again. “Something off the floor, preferably,” he said. “I need a little downtime after a show, you know?”

  “Not a problem,” he said. “Believe me, I understand the desire for a little privacy, especially in a bar. You can head down the stairs out back here behind the bar. I keep a table and chair down by the brew works for my off hours. I’ll send William down with what you desire when it’s ready.”

  “Great,” the stranger said. “Thanks. And hey, don’t forget that apple, William!”

  Him and his apple, Billy thought. Yeah, the guy was definitely fruity. Just one more reason to liberate the guy from his guitar . . . and maybe all those tips as well.

  The stranger grabbed up his guitar and reclaimed his pack before heading off towards the stairs. Gil went back to the kitchen area and Billy scoped out the bar. The crowd was still drunk off the power of the evening, which was great. It at least meant Billy was more likely to get a deal on whichever one of the girls was willing to give him a tumble later.

  When Gil presented him a tray stacked with a sizable meal—complete with a ruby red apple, of course—Billy headed over to the stairs with it. As he descended the staircase, however, Billy’s mind switched back to some of his darker thoughts from earlier in the evening.

  A drifter passing through, no matter how talented, was the perfect victim. If the stranger disappeared, others would assume that he had simply moved on as drifters do. The stranger’s guitar would no doubt fetch a good price, but a new thought struck him, making him a little bit angrier with every step down the stairs.

  A guy like that stranger, a guy who played that good . . . he had to be loaded, right? Billy thought so, especially after having seen the tips people had been slipping the guy once he got off the stage. Multiply that money by the number of towns the stranger must have played in his travels . . . the guy had surely been crying poor at the door earlier. Billy’s blood began to rise. The stranger had tricked him, Billy thought, no doubt about it....

  The more Billy thought about it, the more convinced he became that he had been made a fool of. Hell, the guy probably wore one of those hidden money carriers on his body, the ones Billy had heard were popular in surviving the lawless plains of the Wastes. Thinking about how the guy had played him, Billy clenched his hands, his nails digging into the side of the steel dinner tray. The itch at the back of his brain was overpowering now, and goddammit if Billy didn’t want to hurt the guy for making a fool of him.

  The sounds of the brew works became more and more pronounced as Billy got closer to the bottom of the stairs. The hiss of steam through the twist of copper tubes leading from the water tanks to the mash tun, hopback, and copper kettles filled the air, as did the grind of the old stone wheels that helped to fire the kiln and drive the heat exchanger. Billy stepped into the brew works, passed the wall of noise that seemed to die back down once he was past a large stone tablet the boss kept near it all, and headed toward the back of the room where the stranger sat at a long wooden table with his back to him.

  “Here you go,” Billy said, dropping the tray on the table next to him, letting it ring out with a sharp clang. “You even got an apple, as requested.”

  “Thanks,” the stranger said, ignoring the tray as he fiddled with a small wrapped pack on the table, “but the apple’s not for me.”

  “Oh no?” Billy asked, checking over his shoulder to make sure the boss hadn’t followed him down. The path back to the stairway was clear.

  “No,” the stranger said, shaking his head, “but we’ll come back to that. Let me ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead,” Billy said, welcoming the chance. He had been so busy planning how he was going to spend the stranger’s money, he hadn’t worked out how he should go about the deed of killing him first. Answering questions would give him a moment to come up with a plan.

  “That red stone thing about the size of my chest,” the stranger said. “What the hell is it?”

  “Beats me,” Billy said. He stifled a laugh as a near perfect idea struck him. Beats you too, stranger. Billy headed back over to the object and examined all the tiny marks, squiggles, and symbols on its face. “Looks Egyptian or something. Boss says it’s the family recipe for his home brew here, but I think he just likes jerking around the help when they ask about it. I’d tell him to piss off, but the job market ain’t what it used to be ever since those brain munchers took over the outside world. Filthy creatures.”

  Billy put his arms around the hefty piece of stone, lifting it off its display stand. The damned thing weighed a ton. Oh yeah, he thought. This will do the trick. No question.

  The stranger scoffed as he continued fiddling with that package of his, paying no attention to Billy whatsoever.

  “What would you know about what’s happening in the outside world?” he asked, a hint of anger in his voice. “You’re all just a bunch of shut-in’s, sitting here, drinking your swill, passing your time, talking crap about a world outside that you don’t even know. You think the world stopped when the zombies came? No. ...”

  That’s it, Billy thought and he lugged the thing across the floor towards the stranger. Just keep talking. There was no doubt in the bouncer’s mind that the stone tablet would get the job done . . . and quick. Roll the guy, store the guitar away until he could safely get it out of there, and drag the body out back, maybe leave it to the brain munchers. . . .

  “What do you expect us to do?” Billy asked, trying to distract the stranger as he moved closer. “Run around the Wastes town to town like you, hoping to avoid them?” Billy raised the stone up, hefting the heavy thing in the air using every ounce of strength he had. The damned thing was likely to crush the dumb bastard’s head flat.
Billy looked at the back of his target’s head and caught sight of the stranger’s package, which was now open, its contents spread out on the table in front of him. It was a collection of small tins, tubes, and pads, along with a variety of brushes. “Is that . . . makeup?”

  The stranger paused for a second. “Yes. For my performance.”

  One swift swing, Billy thought, and it will all be over, save for the cleaning up. It was a risk rolling the bastard in the basement of the bar, but it wasn’t every day an opportunity to profit like this fell in your lap. And even if Gil caught him before he could drag the body up the back stairs and dispose of it in the Wastes, Billy already had a cover story forming in his mind. He’d tell the boss that the stranger really had turned out to be fruity and came on to him. When Billy told the bastard where he could go, the stranger had become violent and the situation had escalated. Billy was simply defending himself . . . against a wiry guy who was a full head shorter than himself. Right.

  Okay, it wasn’t the most perfect plan for killing a guy he had ever concocted, but opportunity was not a lengthy visitor these days and just living in a world where the wandering dead filled the Wastes made life a little chancier anyway, didn’t it?

  Billy readied the stone for its downswing, then paused as some small light bulb in his brain clicked on. “Wait ... why would you need makeup now? That doesn’t make sense. You already played.”

  “The makeup wasn’t for my performance onstage,” the stranger said, spinning around in his chair. “It’s for my performance now.” His face was normal except for a small gray patch along his left cheek that was the color of those undead bastards out in the Wastes. The stranger dabbed a pad into the tin in his hand and smeared a swatch of flesh-colored makeup over the spot, giving the stranger the appearance of humanity once again.

  Panic rose in Billy’s heart, the strength leaving his arms, causing the heavy stone tablet to fall towards the stranger’s head. The stranger, however, was quicker, and raised one hand to meet the tablet, stopping it midfall. How he was supporting it with just one hand, Billy didn’t know . . . then it hit him.